Quarterback Sneak
by jayhawkbb
Summary: As a Seattle sports talk radio host, it's my job to give my opinion on the Seahawks new quarterback, Edward Cullen. But maybe I shouldn't have said what I did...you know, about his butt. E/B Rated M for language and adult content.
1. It's How You Play the Game

**A/N: I've been waiting a long time to post this one. Several of my sweet friends read it last year, but I needed to finish some other stuff first. This story was born purely from my love of sports, especially football.  
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**I'm not sure how I got so lucky as to convince my lovely friend to beta this story, too. Thank you, Windgirl810. You are a rock star. :)  
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**I also talked three great friends into prereading/editing: Littlecat358, Tennesseelamb, and Michelle0526. I think you ladies all read this multiple times. Many, many thanks.**

**Thanks for reading!  
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* * *

**BPOV**

"Nooooo," I groan as I hear the alarm.

It's way too freaking early. Why did I agree to this crazy plan? Slitting one eye open enough to locate the clock, I press the snooze button. Ah, silence… and nine more minutes of sleep.

The fourth time the alarm blares, I know I really have to get up. Grunting quietly, I roll out of bed, and then use a combination of squinting and feeling my way along the wall to stumble to the kitchen. I skim my hands across the cold, smooth tile of the countertop until I find the coffee pot. Since I loaded it last night, all I have to do now is turn it on.

As soon as it gurgles to life, I bend forward at the waist, laying my entire upper body on the counter while I wait. I may or may not be moaning quietly every time I exhale. Okay, I am. This crack-of-dawn job is _so_ not a good idea. Realistically, I know I'm being a big baby. I used to pull a worse shift than this one. But I was 22 then; now I'm almost 26.

Yawning, I crack one eye open to peek at the coffee's progress and sigh disgustedly. Not even enough for one cup yet.

"Goddamn slow-ass thing," I mumble crankily. Later today, I'm going to Target and buying a coffee maker with an automatic timer. The coffee will be brewed by the time I have to get up tomorrow.

A minute later, the liquid finally reaches the two-cup line and I quickly grab the pot to fill up my stainless steel travel mug. After replacing the carafe, I take a tentative first swallow from my mug, testing the temperature.

"Mmmm," I moan, in ecstasy this time instead of agony. It's perfect. I snap the lid on, and then sip my elixir repeatedly until I feel the warmth invade my veins. My body knows this means it's time to wake the hell up.

Holding my mug with both hands, I shuffle slowly back down the hallway to the bathroom. After turning on the shower, I set my mug down long enough to pull off the t-shirt and underwear I wore to bed, dropping them where I stand. I pick up my coffee, pause to kick my dirty clothes toward the hamper in the corner, and then open the door to step into the small, steamy shower. Leaning my head back under the spray, I remember how I always used to shower with a cup of coffee in my hand. I haven't done it in a few years – not since the last time I worked a shift that requires me to be awake when almost everyone else is asleep – but it's strangely comforting to me to do it again. It's like an old friend, reminding me that I'll survive this horror.

_Jeez, I'm a dramatic bitch this early in the morning_. Lots of people go to work this early. I'm sure I'll get used to it. It's not forever anyway. I've been assured that I'll be back to my regular mid-day shift within a few months.

By the time I finish, I'm much more awake. I dry off and dress quickly in khaki Bermuda shorts and a plain blue t-shirt. Checking the time, I realize I'm going to have to put it in high gear now or I'll be late. I brush my teeth, leaving the toothbrush in my mouth as I hurriedly rub lotion on my arms and legs. I put on mascara that makes my eyelashes look long and curly, but don't fuss with any other makeup except a little bronzer and pale pink lip gloss. Then I grab my favorite Mariners ball cap out of the closet and pull my long, wet hair through the hole in the back. I slide my watch onto my left wrist, snap the clasp, and check my reflection in the dresser mirror. I'm ready.

After stopping in the kitchen to refill my mug and switch off the coffeepot, I grab my backpack – containing both my laptop and my research for this morning's show – and my car keys and am out the door by 5:05….a fucking m. Apparently, I'm dramatic _and _foul-mouthed this early in the day.

* * *

I skid into the pre-show meeting at 5:29 – one entire minute early, thank you. I try not to look too smug as I take a seat at the small, round table in the station's lounge.

"Wow. Thanks for dressing up, Swan," Emmett says sarcastically from his seat across from me.

"Shut up. I'm wearing almost the same exact thing as you," I retort, sticking my tongue out at him. We really are dressed very similarly. Both of us are wearing shorts, t-shirts and hats. Only our footwear differs; flip flops for me, running shoes for him.

"Yeah, but you're a girl," he smirks. "Don't you care about how we look at you? Are you content to just be one of the guys?"

Emmett McCarty and I have been close friends for several years, and one of his favorite pastimes is teasing me, trying to goad me into a reaction that involves me either yelling at him or punching him. But 5:30 a.m. is definitely too early for teasing.

Or… maybe he's hit a little too close to home. I flip him off – internally pissed at myself for feeding his reaction addiction – and then turn my attention to the papers Newton is laying in front of us.

Mike Newton is, in a word, an idiot. He's the producer on Emmett's morning show – and he doesn't like me very much. The feeling is entirely mutual. He's an overbearing, know-it-all jackwagon, and when I started as an intern at the station five years ago, he repeatedly asked me out. The first time, I laughed so hard I almost fell down. He doesn't possess any of the qualities I look for in potential dates: sense of humor, good personality, general affability. After three weeks of near-daily asking, I finally told him that it just wasn't going to happen.

Since that day, Newton and I have had a hate/hate relationship. We don't usually have to deal with each other since he produces the morning show and I'm on afternoons, but until they find a new co-host for Emmett, we're stuck with each other.

Newton knows that I am saving his ass by agreeing to this plan, but he hasn't expressed any gratitude about it. I'm hoarding that ammunition for a day when I really need it though. Neither Newton nor Emmett needs to be reminded right now that Emmett's former co-host was arrested early last week in downtown Seattle – busted for DUI and possession of a whole lot of coke. The station owners were furious about the negative publicity KSST received, and they blamed Newton for not knowing what was going on. I heard through the station's gossip chain that he almost lost his job before Emmett approached the head honchos with his idea to bring me on the morning show for a while as a fill-in. The afternoon show I co-host with Riley Biers is the station's most listened-to program, and they're hoping that a familiar voice added to Emmett's will help the audience forget about what happened last week.

By the time Newton is three sentences in to his "vision" for this morning's show, I've tuned him out. Propping my chin in my left hand, I pick up a pen with my right and doodle in the margin of Newton's handout. Even though I don't want to, I go back to thinking about what Emmett said.

_Am _I content to be one of the guys? No, not really, although that's what I end up being most of the time. I haven't dated anyone for longer than a month in a couple of years. I keep telling myself that I just haven't met the right guy. That it's _not_ me.

But what if it is?

I go on a lot of first dates. When guys meet me, they think I must be a great catch. I'm no international beauty, but my face is okay and I have a decent body. Then there's my job. A woman who watches and talks about sports for a living. A woman who loves going to football and baseball games… who can get good tickets… who even knows some of the players. Every guy's fantasy, right?

Right. Until they go out with me and regurgitate whatever opinions they've heard on SportsCenter or another radio show. And that's fine. I don't mind that. What I mind is the part that comes next...where they get offended if I don't agree. It almost always ends the same way, with some version of "girls don't know anything about sports". When they don't call again, I'm usually relieved.

I feel like I've tried them all: The sporties who think they could have played pro, the hardcore fans who blindly adore anyone who plays pro, the casual fans who think teams overpay for the pros. Then I decided maybe I should stay away from guys who like sports altogether.

So I tried the corporate guys who are constantly busy... and usually too uptight for me. I tried the tech geeks who were frustrated by my lack of interest in the latest mega-giga-itoucheditfirst-pad. I even tried the shipyard guys. They were fun, but liked to party a little too much for me. I go on a bender one or twice a year, not once or twice a week.

Maybe there _is_ something wrong with me. I haven't had a really serious boyfriend since junior year of college – four years ago. When he broke up with me, he accused me of not being fully committed to him. And he was right; I wasn't. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of having a relationship like that. My parents certainly weren't at my age, which is why I grew up with just my dad. Both of my parents are in solid marriages now, but earlier in life, they were each happier alone.

I contemplate for a few more minutes as Newton continues to yammer about… something. When he releases us only five minutes before we go on the air, I narrow my eyes at him, and then rush to the ladies room.

* * *

When I enter the small, newly-remodeled studio two minutes later, Emmett is already seated at the far end of the black, rectangular table that fills most of the room. Six microphones on adjustable arms extend from the center of the table, each pointed toward one of the chairs situated around it.

"You gonna run the board every day?" I ask, shutting the door behind me. I already know the answer – Emmett's very territorial about the small sound board in front of him.

"Yeah, if it's okay with you," he replies, looking up at me. "I like to do the sound drops. But Newton does the mixing from the booth."

At the mention of my nemesis, I pause mid-stride to glance at Newton through the window into the control room. He smiles haughtily at me, so I assume he's listening to the conversation. I glare back at him.

"Sure. You know, Sam is an awesome producer," I answer, keeping my eyes on Newton as I talk about _my_ producer. It's true; Sam is great. But I'm saying it now because I know that Newton doesn't like him. "I bet he wouldn't mind giving Newton some tips on effective use of music and sound bites."

I continue watching Newton long enough to see his smile fade into a scowl, and then move to the chair next to Emmett with a slight smirk on my face.

As I pull out the chair and set my backpack and bottled water on the desk, Emmett shakes his head at me, but he's smiling. "Starting a war on the first day?" he asks, holding his hand over the mic in front of him so Newton can't hear. "You know he'll retaliate."

"I know," I whisper as I unpack my laptop. "I'll stop." I drop my backpack onto the floor and then sit down in the chair.

"He brought your earpiece in. Maybe he's trying to make peace," Emmett says lowly, still covering the microphone.

"Maybe," I shrug. I think it's more likely that he gave me someone else's unsanitized earpiece, but I'm definitely not going to say that in front of a live mic. When I take it out of the clear, zipped bag labeled with my name, I study it carefully. It looks clean, so I insert it into my right ear, wiggling it around a little until it's comfortable. I plug the end of the cord into the battery pack Newton also laid on the table and then hook the pack onto the back waistband of my shorts.

Sighing, I look longingly at the guest headphones hanging on the microphone across the table. I loved the big, padded headphones I wore everyday for the last five years. But three weeks ago, the station owners, two sisters named Kate and Charlotte, announced that they wanted us to look more camera-ready, and presented us with our wireless earpieces. I'm still not used to it, and I don't know why we have to be camera-ready, but they're the bosses. Since I love my job, I'm coping.

I plug my laptop into the tabletop outlet, and then take the USB cord Emmett hands me.

"Cheating off me?" I tease as I connect it so Emmett can see my laptop on his monitor.

"You do better research," he laughs.

"Check. Check. Give me a thumbs up." Newton's voice booms in my ear. Emmett and I both give the signal without looking at him, already reviewing the show schedule listed on our screens. Newton is rambling about something and barking orders to Seth, the intern. I miss my non-rambling, non-barky Sam already. But I'm determined to start the week with a good attitude, so I pull myself out of my musing and turn to my right to wink at Emmett.

"Let's have a great show," he says, holding both of his fists out toward me like a boxer. Smiling, I tap the top of his fists, and then let him return the gesture.

Checking the countdown clock on my computer screen, I see that it's 5:59:30. "We're on in thirty," I whisper, then hear Newton give the half-a-minute warning in my ear. I stifle my giggle – he's late to the party, as usual. I wiggle my eyebrows at Emmett and take a sip of my water as I hear the morning show music begin.

* * *

"Good morning, sports fans. It's Monday, August thirty-first, six o'clock on the dot. You're listening to The Kickoff on KSST, Seattle's leader in sports programming. I'm Emmett McCarty. Sitting beside me this morning is the lovely Bella Swan. Thanks for filling in, Bella," Emmett says, pointing at me.

"It's my pleasure, Emmett," I say into the mic.

"We're borrowing Bella from the early afternoon show. You're going to stay on mornings with me for a while, right?" he asks, reading his line off the sheet that Newton handed us earlier.

"Right, Emmett. I'm keeping my butt firmly planted in this seat until we find a fool who will wake up this freaking early on a permanent basis," I say amusedly, turning my head slightly so I can see into the sound booth behind me. On the other side of the glass, Newton is holding up his copy of the paper I'm supposed to be reading from, shaking it and pointing to it as his face reddens. He'll be yelling into my ear in a minute, I bet.

I'm not known for staying on script or following rules. I say what I think, which sometimes gets me in trouble. But I never do it dishonestly or disrespectfully. Luckily, Sam usually protects me from middle management, and the station owners love me for two reasons: I'm fairly well-connected in this town and I'm pretty good at my job.

"Most of our listeners probably know you, but for those who don't, why don't you give us a little bio, Swan?" Emmett says.

"Sure, Emmett. I have a degree in broadcast journalism. I have worked here at KSST for almost five years and have been co-hosting the afternoon show with Riley for a little over two," I say, glancing over at Emmett. My eyes widen when I see that he's backed up from his mic and has stuffed an entire donut into his mouth. He looks like a squirrel storing food for the winter.

Barely containing my laughter, I continue, "I love football and basketball, both pro and college. I love the Mariners and baseball's post-season, but think the regular season is too long. I like hockey. I don't get the big deal about soccer, but love going to games, especially when the foreign teams come here because the fans are so intense. I will watch almost any sport, but I rarely watch boxing live in case something goes really wrong. Done with that donut yet, Emmett? I'm running out of information."

He swallows and then chuckles quietly into his mic. "All done, Swan. Shall we move on?"

"Okay. It was an eventful sports weekend here in Seattle. The Mariners won yesterday, but the big news belongs to the Seahawks," I announce, reading from Newton's script for once. As Emmett takes over his part, I glance toward the window into the sound booth and smile sardonically at Newton. He nods. I roll my eyes in reply.

"By now most of you know that the Seahawks' aging quarterback, Quil Ateara, was knocked out of the third preseason game on Friday night with a torn ACL. He will likely be out for the entire season," Emmett says. "Yesterday, the Seahawks traded two first and two third round draft picks to get Edward Cullen, who has been a backup QB for the last two seasons with the Arizona Cardinals. Cullen arrived in Seattle last night and will be practicing with the team for the first time today."

I chime in with the stats Newton gave us on Cullen, and then Emmett and I discuss the Seahawks' chances for a successful season with an untested, formerly backup quarterback at the helm. But we agree that the Seahawks' backup, who played most of the preseason snaps, is not talented enough to lead the team for the whole season.

In the next half hour, Emmett spends a little time attacking me for wearing a hat to work this morning. I reply that it's too fucking early for me to be washing and straightening my damn hair when I have to be at the studio at five-fucking-thirty a.m. – except I say it in words that won't get the station hit with an FCC fine.

Emmett and I have always had a decent rapport on the air. We have co-hosted each other's shows a few times in the past when our regular co-hosts were vacationing or sick. We used to play a game to see which of us could get the other to laugh – a real uncontrolled, belly laugh – first on-air. We've played for money, for beers, for bottles of Crown Royal. I don't really like Crown, but Emmett loves it, and it killed him a little when he had to drop money on a bottle that he didn't get to take home. I ended up giving it back to him for Christmas that year. That was the first – and _only_ – time he attempted to kiss me on the lips.

We didn't discuss playing the game this morning, but when we get to the seven-thirty half hour, I can tell it's on. Emmett and I are in the same fantasy football league and as soon as he brings it up, I'm pretty sure I know where this conversation is headed.

"Bella, tell everyone about our upcoming fantasy draft…tell them how you pick your team based on whose butts look good," he says, smiling at me. I refrain from punching him, but only because he leans away… and because it's hard to be mad at him when he aims his blue eyes and dimples my way.

"That's not true, Emmett, and you know it. I do a ton of research during the preseason. I have such extensive notes on players that I drive most of my league crazy when we're drafting," I argue calmly, not letting my voice betray my annoyance.

"But," he prompts, dragging the word out and raising his intonation slightly at the end. I'll give in on this, but it's all he's getting.

"But I always draft two guys based solely on how they look in the tight, white pants," I say, amused, but not laughing. "That sounds really sexist and I swear that's not how I am. But a girl's gotta have something to look forward to…even if it's someone's behind."

"And the lucky guys this year are…," he leads again.

"I'll never tell," I say coyly. "It's too early to know for sure anyway. But I have a list of well-rounded players who meet my criteria."

When I glance toward the sound booth, Newton's face is so red that I'm briefly worried he might stroke out. I'm not concerned for his personal well-being, but I'll get blamed, for sure, if it happens now. He's made no secret of the fact that he's not happy about me being here. Plus, he talked a really nice girl into marrying him last year and I'd hate to be responsible for making her a widow, even if she might be better off without him. So I steer the conversation in a safer direction. Emmett shakes his head at me in disappointment.

During the five minute bottom-of-the-hour break, I grab my phone to email my mom. I spent the weekend in Phoenix with her and my stepdad, Phil, returning to Seattle late last night. I previously texted her to let her know I made it home safely, but I want to send her a longer note thanking her for the weekend. My mom and I are close, but not necessarily in a mother-daughter way. She was never very maternal; most of our bonding was done after I became an adult.

Ironically, the quarterback the Seahawks traded for was from Phoenix, but I didn't pay much attention to it while I was there, even though the trade rumors started Friday night. Emmett texted me then, but I replied that I was busy with my mom… who made me promise not to spend the whole weekend watching sports on my laptop and phone.

When I got home last night, it was too late – and I was too tired – to watch any local news about him. Cullen. Edward Cullen. _Edward Cullen, _I say in a British accent in my head. Kind of a stodgy name.

I finish the email to my mom right before we come back from break. Emmett begins by talking about the new QB again. I glance at the clock. It's 8:02. I've almost made it through the morning without a major disaster. But I only have fifty-eight minutes to get Emmett to laugh.

"Hey, Swan, your dad works for the Seahawks, right?" he asks, looking down at the papers in front of him instead of at me.

"Right. He's a quality control coach for the offense," I answer, immediately realizing where he's going with this line of questioning. He's really too transparent.

"Meaning?"

"He breaks down tape on opponents' games. He's always a week or two ahead of the actual schedule, getting video ready for the offense to watch," I explain. That's a real dumbing-down of what my dad does; it's much more complex than that, but he doesn't like me talking about it on the radio.

"And everyone calls him 'The Chief'."

"Yep. The Chief. I still don't know for sure why people call him that," I say lightly. "I've heard it has something to do with the way he polices the team hotel hallways after curfew, keeping the players in and the women out."

"So what does he think of this Cullen kid?"

"I don't know. He won't really discuss the Seahawks with me," I grudgingly admit. I haven't talked to my dad since the trade anyway.

"And why is that?" Emmett asks, looking at me with shining, mischievous eyes.

"Because I once repeated something on the air that he told me in confidence. If I'd still been living at home, I would have been grounded for the rest of my life," I answer wryly. "But I didn't know that what he said was supposed to be off the record."

"So he hasn't given you any insight on Cullen?" Emmett prods.

"No, but he's always told me to look at a quarterback's feet first when evaluating his skills," I say.

"Really? Their feet?" Emmett asks, genuinely surprised by that bit of information.

"Yep. He says if the QB's feet are shifty while he's in the pocket, 'he'll never last in the league'," I say, frowning and mimicking my dad's voice.

"So how are Cullen's feet?" Emmett asks.

"I don't know. I haven't seen any footage of him at all," I confess with a shrug, "which means that if my dad is listening, he'll flood my inbox with more video than I can possibly watch."

We both laugh, but not enough to declare a winner in our game, and then go to commercial. True to form, I get a shitload of digital footage from my dad twenty seconds later. When I play some of the video, Em connects to my laptop and we watch Cullen's highlight reel for a couple of minutes before the short break ends.

When we're back on the air, Emmett blandly says he thinks Cullen looks all right, then asks my opinion.

"I think he has a lot of potential, Em. His feet looked good in the pocket. Based on what I've read, he didn't play that well when he filled in last year – he was sacked five times, I think, in two games. But, in his defense, the Cards' O-line stunk last year, so that's not completely his fault," I remark.

"True," Emmett agrees. "That offensive front four couldn't stop anyone." He's looking at me and can tell I have more to say, so he motions with his hand for me to go ahead.

"His seven-step-drop looks good, and his throwing motion is spot-on. In the slow-motion clip we watched of his spiral, it was picture perfect," I rave. I'm being honest… but after I say the words, I realize that I sound too impressed. I feel my face heating as Emmett takes over.

"But what about the most important thing, Bella? How does his butt look in the tight, white pants?" Emmett asks, his eyes taunting. Really? He's coming in for the kill on _this_ subject? Ah, Grasshopper, you don't know who you're messing with.

"Meh." I respond, shrugging and wrinkling my nose slightly, biting the inside of my cheek to hold in the laughter.

"What does that mean?" Emmett asks, trying not to laugh, too.

"It means so-so," I answer flatly… doing my best to sound unimpressed and uninterested. Honestly, when I watched the video, I wasn't paying attention to his ass, but that revelation won't win the game for me.

I think I know what will though.

"I've seen twenty quarterbacks with better butts than Cullen's," I announce snootily. "Even Grandpa Favre's is nicer. Heck, I've seen defensive linemen whose butts are better than Cullen's. And you know, Emmett, quarterbacks aren't the backsides I usually draft. I really prefer a tight end."

I win! Emmett belly laughs at the D-line comment, knowing most of them do not have good asses – they pack on the pounds for the season. He laughs even louder at the tight end comment. When we go to break, I ask him what I've won.

"Payback," he answers, his eyes twinkling, his dimples carving deep divots in his cheeks. I quirk an eyebrow daringly at him, but know I'll have to watch my back for a few days. Em's a pretty good practical joker.

It's 8:30 a.m. when we come back, and we take listener calls for the rest of the program. Most of them offer opinions on the move the Seahawks made – and almost all of the callers seem excited. Honestly, Quil, the injured quarterback, is past his prime and hasn't played well the last couple of seasons.

Near the end of the show, a couple of women call in to tell me that Cullen's ass is better than I judged it. Another one calls in to say that he not only has a great ass, but also a nice face. I haven't seen him without his helmet, so I can neither agree nor disagree with that. Maybe I can catch the news tonight. I'm sure they'll show a picture of him. I promise to give him another look just to shut up the horde of female callers.

I turn to roll my eyes at Emmett and scribble a note to him: "How good-looking can he possibly be?"

Emmett shrugs back at me, smiling as he writes his response: "Doesn't compare to me, baby."

I laugh silently and crumple the paper into a ball, tossing it at him.

We go off the air just before nine and have a short post-show meeting right after. Newton wants me to stop talking about guys' asses on the air. I want Newton to fuck off and die. I think both of us are headed for disappointment.

Emmett amuses me during the meeting by making faces behind Newton's back as he berates me for all the butt-talk, telling me I will completely alienate all the male listeners, and the female listeners I might attract won't stay once I move back to afternoons. I sit stone-faced while he talks and entertain myself by thinking of ways to make him scream like a little girl. I don't think it would be difficult.

Newton also tells us that starting tomorrow, the show will be streamed live via webcam. He looks pointedly at me and declares that he doesn't want me to wear a hat on camera.

I was mildly annoyed with him before. Now I am _pissed_. I am not allowed to talk about the butts of grown men who run around in spandex pants on television, but he is allowed to blatantly parade me in front of other grown men to attract web hits? Nice. Maybe he'd like me to just show up in a bikini tomorrow.

Whatever. I'm now officially tuned out. Leaning back in my chair, I make my Target list in my head, wasting time by inventing mnemonic devices to remind me of all the things I need so I won't forget anything. I could just grab a pen and blatantly write my list in full view of Newton, but I really was going to play nice with him... for a few days at least. I'll save my clear-cut animosity for another time.

Also, Charlotte and Kate have been really good to me. Their father built this station from the ground up and it's an important legacy to them. I don't want to let them down. They gave me a paying intern job when I was 21 and broke, and offered me a full-time position when I graduated from college. They paired me with Riley and promoted the hell out of our show, helping make it into the time-slot winner it's been for the last fifteen months.

I "mmhmm" and nod my way through the rest of the meeting, wondering how it is that Newton thinks Emmett and I are paying attention. Emmett is making popping noises with his mouth. I'm repeatedly curling and uncurling the toes on my right foot so that my flip flop slaps against my heel in time with the song in my head. We're both acting a little like sixth graders – but we have a really horrible teacher.

Finally, Newton wraps it up and I launch myself out of the chair.

"Bella," Newton says, "I expect you to pay attention tomorrow… about everything. I'd hate to have to call Kate and Charlotte on your second day." I turn away, bristling at his attempted blackmail.

"Of course, _Michael_," I reply sweetly. I know he hates to be called by his first name – he feels like a jock, an athlete, if everyone calls him by his last name. He probably even makes his wife call him Newton in bed. I usually do call him Newton, but not because he likes it. It's more a product of my childhood – growing up around college and pro football players. I call almost everyone by their last name at least part of the time.

For the next few hours, I shut myself in my tiny office to research some baseball stats. It looks like the Mariners could make the post-season, which they haven't done as long as I've been a sports commentator. I find some interesting historical information and familiarize myself with the rest of the teams who will likely be in the post-season, too.

Riley comes in to talk for a while. He and Emmett are my two best friends at the station. Well, since I find it difficult to let my guard down emotionally, they're my two best friends anywhere. That doesn't mean we're exceptionally close, just that I'm not exceptionally close with anyone outside my family.

I don't really have girlfriends. There's a girl in my building, Jessica, that I hang out with a couple of times a month, but, like my dad, I've always been content to be alone. I wonder if that has anything to do with all the first dates. Yeah, it probably does. I'd rather be alone than be with someone just to be with someone.

It's lunchtime when I finally leave the station. I call my stepmom, Sue, but she can't get away from work. I settle for a drive-thru, eating in my car on the way to Target. I'm able to get everything I need except the one freaking thing I really wanted to buy: A coffee pot with an automatic timer. I know that I can't survive another morning without one – _ah, the dramatic bitch is still alive in there somewhere_ – so I drive from place to place and eventually end up at Williams-Sonoma, buying a coffee maker that costs more than my weekly pay was when I started working. It's ridiculous, but it's a necessary evil. Since it grinds its own beans, I also stop at a way-too-expensive gourmet market and spend an hour wandering the aisles, finally leaving with coffee beans, red wine and a bar of dark chocolate.

When I get to my apartment building, there's nowhere to park. I spend ten minutes circling the block before I find a spot and even then, it's a hike to my building. But I'm getting home just when the local news will be starting. I'm excited to see what the Seahawks were up to today while I enjoy the dark chocolate and a really full glass of Cabernet.

When I open the door to my apartment, I gasp…then I yell.

"Holy mother of God, give me a freaking break!"

* * *

**Chapter 2 will post tomorrow. Please review. :)**


	2. Blindsided

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* * *

"All right, sweetie," Sue says, tying up the third huge, black trash bag. "I think that's it."

Sighing heavily, I wipe my forearm across my damp brow. For the last four hours, my stepmom and I have been mopping up the water that was standing, practically wall-to-wall, in part of my apartment when I got home. A cracked pipe in my upstairs neighbor's kitchen – which he didn't know was leaking when he left for work this morning – allowed water to pour out all day. His kitchen is ruined. My kitchen, bathroom and part of my living room are ruined. Thankfully, the water didn't get to my bedroom, so at least I have a place to sleep and clothes to wear.

"Thank you so much for coming over, Sue. For helping me," I say, turning away to wring out the mop in the sink. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"I'm happy to help, Bella. You know that," she replies, dragging the heavy trash bags over to the door. "I'll take all these wet towels home and wash them. You sure you don't want to come with me? You know our guestroom is always open for you."

"I appreciate the offer," I respond, turning to lean against the counter. "But I'm so exhausted that I just want to fall into bed. I have to get up in six hours."

"Your hair dryer is working?" she asks. Yawning, I nod. "Don't use it in the bathroom."

"I won't," I answer. The building maintenance guys have been in and out of here all night and pronounced my plumbing okay, but told me not to use the electrical outlets anywhere except my bedroom until they do a more thorough check tomorrow.

I help Sue lug the bags of heavy, wet towels to her car and make her promise to have my dad carry them inside their house. Before she gets in, I hug her goodbye.

"You're the best," I say quietly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she replies, squeezing me more tightly for a second.

After I change into pajamas and wash my face, I unpack my fancy, new coffee maker. Chuckling to myself, I load it up for the morning and plug it in beside my bed. Tomorrow I won't even have to get up to get my caffeine fix. This is the most genius thing ever. Why didn't I think of it earlier?

It's not until I'm settled in bed a few minutes later that I realize I never did any real research on Cullen for tomorrow's show. For several seconds, I entertain the notion of digging out my laptop to read up a little on him. But it's past eleven o'clock, and I'm too sleepy to stay awake any longer.

Dammit. I really hate feeling unprepared… flying by the seat of my pants. Oh, well. Maybe it will make tomorrow's show interesting.

Rolling to my right, I flip my pillow over and rest my cheek against the cool side. With one last yawn, I let my eyes slide closed and drift off to sleep.

* * *

Tuesday morning, I try to play nice with Newton. I wear dark jeans, a black v-neck t-shirt and red peep toe wedges. I straighten my hair, wear makeup and even accessorize with a necklace and earrings. See? Nice. Especially given the fact that I have to get up a little after four o'clock to accomplish all this and be at the station in time for the pre-production meeting.

When I walk in, Newton nods his approval. I drink crappy coffee from the machine in the lounge and plot ways to inflict corporal punishment on him and the stupid webcam. After I catch him staring at my chest – again – while I'm talking, most of the plans involve him being publicly humiliated, too.

The first hour of the show flies by. Emmett and I talk about the Mariners, and then college football. There's not much Seahawks news to discuss since yesterday's practice was closed to the media. No new pictures or footage to analyze. So it's probably not evident that I didn't do my homework on Cullen. Score one for Bella.

A little after seven, we take some listener calls. A regular morning show caller who nicknamed himself Sports Fan Dan is first. Obviously not believing that a woman could possibly know and love sports as much as a man, he insists on quizzing my sports knowledge.

"Okay, Dan, ask away," I invite, turning to roll my eyes at Emmett. "I will warn you, though, that I was raised by my father, who was first a college football scout in Arizona, and then an NFL scout for the Cardinals. When I was fourteen, he became a Seahawks coach. I've grown up not just watching sports, but hanging out with athletes, coaches, and sports journalists. I absorbed a lot of information. Go ahead and try to stump me though."

Dan asks me five questions, of which I answer four correctly. I only miss the really obscure baseball question. Baseball stats and trivia are my weakness. I know the past thirty-five years pretty well, but before that, I only know the biggies.

Emmett rushes to defend me, and even Newton agrees that almost no one would have known the answer to that question. It's a moot point. Sports Fan Dan has decided I passed anyway. Then he asks if we'll have the webcam on every day so he can see me. I turn to glare at Newton through the glass, laughing when he turns and runs out of the control room like the scared little boy he is. Emmett and I make fun of him all through the next commercial break until his angry voice comes through our earpieces – reminding us he can hear everything we say. That makes us laugh all over again.

During the eight o'clock half hour, two Seahawks offensive linemen are in-studio with us. Tyler Crowley and Garrett Stevens talk about the team and the upcoming season. They share a couple of funny training camp stories. And they heap praise on the new quarterback, telling us that Tuesday is their contractual day off, but Cullen was still at the stadium for a voluntary workout before six o'clock this morning.

As we approach the bottom-of-the-hour break, I find that I'm thoroughly enchanted with these guys. Tyler's cute and a little bit of a clown. He's sitting in the chair next to me, and he sings to me during every break, making me laugh out loud several times. Garrett seems sweet, and his light brown eyes shine with mischief when he tells me about a joke the team played on my dad last year.

At the end of the half hour, Emmett unexpectedly asks them to stay for the last few segments of the show, causing me to turn and look quizzically at him since we hadn't discussed that. But he's engrossed in something on his monitor and doesn't even glance at me.

Mindful of the two seconds of dead air, I speak into the mic. "Yeah, that would be great. Can you two stick around?"

"Sure," Tyler replies, smiling widely at me when our eyes meet.

Emmett comes to life then, taking over as we lead into the break, but still ignoring me despite the fact that I'm looking at him again. Irritated, I swivel my chair and shift my stare to Newton, whose eyes are glued to the sound board. I see the muscle in his cheek twitch, but he doesn't lift his eyes. I guess he realizes I'm pissed at him. He's probably afraid to look at me, I reason, letting my lips curl into a smug smile. He must have only talked in Emmett's earpiece about asking Tyler and Garrett to stay. What a jackwagon.

After we go to commercial, Emmett jumps up and announces he'll get coffee from the lounge for us. When I offer to help, he rushes to the door, insisting he can carry all the cups himself and instructing me to entertain our guests. Puzzled by his nervous behavior, I raise one eyebrow at him, but in his haste to get out of the room, he doesn't even notice. I shake my head in amusement and briefly wonder what's up with him before rolling my chair closer to Tyler.

"Emmett and I are going to emcee the Seahawks pep rally a week from Friday – before the first regular season game. Are you guys going to be there?" I ask, looking first at Tyler, and then across the table at Garrett.

They both say yes, and we talk for a minute about which other players are attending. Tyler nudges my arm and says he doesn't stay out late during the season, but he'll buy me a drink in the bar after the rally.

Emmett comes back through the door carefully balancing four cardboard cups on a flimsy, plastic tray. Once I have my coffee, I scoot back to my place, letting him take over the conversation while I study the paper Newton gave me during the pre-show meeting. I read through the list to make sure I talked about everything I was supposed to during the show. See? Playing nice again.

As I'm perusing, the guys are gathered at the opposite end of the table, speaking in hushed tones. I don't pay them much attention until I overhear a quiet comment from Tyler.

"She's a nice girl, Emmett. I kind of feel bad."

My head snaps up and I glance toward them, my eyes narrowed. "What's going on, boys?" I ask suspiciously.

"Don't worry about it," Emmett answers, winking at me.

Consequently, I do nothing _but_ worry about it for the remainder of the break.

As soon as we're back on-air, Emmett immediately asks if the guys ever listen to this show in the mornings.

"Yeah, we do. In fact, somebody turned it on over the speaker system yesterday morning. I think everyone was in the locker room getting dressed while it was on…just before eight-thirty." Tyler says, looking over at me. Crap. He's looking at me sympathetically.

"We had a lot of fun with some of the stuff Bella said," Garrett adds, not meeting my eyes.

"What did I say?" I ask, frowning and trying to keep the panic out of my voice even though my stomach is somersaulting nervously. Jesus. That was twenty-four hours ago, early on in the day that turned into a nightmare. I can't remember what I said… I can't even remember what I ate for dinner last night. Actually, I don't know _if_ I ate dinner last night.

"About Cullen," Garrett says, finally looking over at me, amusement obvious in his eyes.

"I distinctly remember saying I think he has potential," I assert, mentally running through what else I said on-air after Emmett and I watched the video of him. "I said his presence in the pocket and his throwing motion are solid."

"And you said he has a so-so backside," Tyler chirps, starting to laugh. Apparently, he's past feeling sorry for me.

"Oh, right," I admit, feeling my face flush as the guys all laugh. "_That_. Well, in my defense – and Cullen's – I didn't really check out his derrière when I watched the video."

"Maybe you can get a good look at it today, Swan," Emmett snorts, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Yeah. We brought you a surprise, Bella," Garrett adds.

"Oh… no," I say quietly. My pulse begins to race, the heavy beat of it thundering in my ears.

"Oh, yes. Tyler and Garrett brought a friend with them today. Newton, send him in," Emmett laughs, not bothering to hide his delight anymore.

The studio door opens and the third guest backs into the room….blue helmet, gray t-shirt, but no tight white pants. It doesn't matter. Even under the broken-in jeans he's wearing, I can see that I have clearly under-assessed his, um, assets. The ass beneath the distressed denim is superior.

The guys are all talking, thank God, so I don't have to say anything yet. When they finally get around to asking me if I'd like to change my answer, I want to scream "Fuck, yeah!"

Instead, aware that I'm being watched, I shrug as I reply. "He's not wearing the right pants for me to accurately judge, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt."

Following my pronouncement, Cullen turns around, still wearing his helmet. I can't really see what he looks like between the bars of the face mask; all I see are bright green eyes and white teeth.

Luckily, Emmett lets me off the hook after my answer. He shifts his focus to Cullen, inviting him to stay for the rest of the show. I can't tear my eyes away from him as he takes a seat and pulls off his helmet. Oh, hell. The lady who called in yesterday to tell me how good-looking Cullen is was clearly mistaken. He's not merely good-looking. He's beautiful. The face surrounding his vivid, green eyes is ruggedly handsome. His strong jawline is covered in stubble as if he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. His hair is short and groomed on the sides and back, and longer and sticking up wildly on top.

Emmett points to the headphones hanging from the microphone in front of Cullen, and he quickly puts them on. Then he smiles at me before he begins talking, probably amused by the way my voice no longer seems to work. Neither does my face. I'm pretty sure that I'm staring open-mouthed at him while his deep voice flows smoothly into the mic, chuckling as he tells us how memorable we made his first day in Seattle. He's a good sport about it, especially considering how much shit he probably got during the course of the day.

Eventually, I regain my ability to speak and point out that I thought his football mechanics were sound, and that's what matters to Seattle sports fans.

When Tyler chimes in to say that Cullen's jersey is already the best-seller on the Seahawks website, Cullen quickly turns red, embarrassed by the comment. His obvious humility, coupled with the blush, makes him seem even more attractive and I feel my lips curve up – way up – into a wide smile. I try not to sigh like a love-struck fool into the microphone, but I think one might slip through.

"What's your jersey number?" I ask… I have no idea why.

He looks directly at me as he answers. "Seven."

Oh, crap. Another deadly combination: his eyes and his voice. I feel a spark zip right up my spine and am grateful when Emmett steers the discussion back toward the team. Emmett looks at me out of the corner of his eye, but gives no other indication that he notices I've turned into a babbling, thirteen year-old girl. Hoping to regain my composure, I pick up my lukewarm coffee and take a big drink. It works. The coffee is so terrible that I make a face, and the bitterness jolts me right back to reality.

Tyler relays a few more stories about how they welcomed Cullen to the team, and Cullen pulls his eyes away from me to focus on them, disputing a few of the facts. The chemistry and camaraderie developing between the three players is apparent, and they turn out to be entertaining guests.

When Emmett and I sign off for the day, the hosts of the next show are waiting in the hallway to take our seats. Eager to get away from Cullen's mesmerizing presence, I pull out my earpiece and unhook the battery pack. I offer to take Emmett's, too, as I head for the control room. In return, he says he'll carry my laptop to the lounge. After thanking him, I pause to wave goodbye to our guests, and then book it out of the studio.

I linger in the control room longer than necessary, talking to Seth to waste time. Then, assuming Newton wants a post-show meeting in the lounge to gloat, I walk that way. I take two steps into the room before I realize that Emmett is inside, still chatting with the players.

My eyes land on Cullen's for a split-second before I slide them away as I veer toward the refrigerator in the back of the room. Knowing I can't be rude, I take a deep, calming breath and load my arms with bottled water for all of us. When I push the fridge door shut with my knee and turn around, Cullen is standing right behind me.

"Jesus!" I exclaim, startled enough to send my heart racing. I exhale loudly and lean back against the refrigerator. "You're pretty stealthy for such a big guy."

"Sorry, Bella. Didn't mean to scare you," he says smoothly. "I just wanted to say thanks for being a good sport. When the guys asked me to come along this morning, I was afraid it would be awkward, but it wasn't. It was fun."

His words register, but I'm having trouble concentrating with him standing so close to me. He smells good. He looks really good. His green eyes are almost too bright when they're only inches in front of me. They stand out; so beautiful in an already-stunning face.

Knowing that I need to pull myself together, I push those thoughts away and put my radio personality on again.

"Yeah, it was fun. I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday though. I owe you an apology. First for objectifying you, and secondly for misjudging your ass…..ets," I say, smirking up at him.

He laughs then, a deep rumble that seems to vibrate through my chest, too.

"Thanks," he says, taking the bottle of water I hold toward him and twisting off the lid. "Apology accepted. So, will you be at the game Thursday night?"

I shrug. "Don't know. I don't usually go to preseason games. Oh, shit! No offense," I say, cringing as I realize I've probably just insulted him again since, until this year, most of the NFL games he's played in have been preseason.

"It's all right. I know they're not the most exciting to watch," he allows. "But I'm grateful that we'll have this final preseason game to get our shit together as a team. This is a whole new experience for me."

I can't help smiling back when he grins at me. He's nice and cute... what's not to smile about?

"What about next week? The home opener – will you be at that one?" he asks.

I tilt my head indecisively side-to-side. "Probably. The station gets some press passes and I can usually wrangle one. Or my dad can get me in, but I hate asking him," I say.

"Charlie's your dad, right?" he asks. I nod. "I like him. I met with him yesterday, but he didn't tell me that it was his _daughter_ who caused all the trouble for me. They played your comments about my ass on a loop in the locker room after practice."

"Oh, God. I'm really so sorry, Cullen," I say, closing my eyes as I apologize again. I try to hold the laughter in, but a couple of rogue chuckles escape. My eyes snap open and I roll my lips together to contain the rest of my giggles.

"Yeah, I can tell how sorry you are by the way you're laughing about it," he nods, studying my face. He looks amused as he answers, and I'm struck once again by how cool he's been about all this. I've known enough players through the years to know that some of them get pretty nasty if commentators criticize them on the air.

"I promise to say only good things about you next week, even if you suck." I vow teasingly.

He shakes his head. "No. Be honest about my performance. I can take it. If you ever have any praise for me, I expect to have earned it," he says, still smiling slightly at me. "But if you want to make it up to me, you could have dinner with me this week. Friday?"

My eyebrows involuntarily shoot upward. I wasn't expecting him to say that. "Bad idea, Cullen. You don't want to get mixed up with crazy media people on your second full day in Seattle," I quip. I'm trying to look aloof, but inside I'm panicking. _Panicking_. He's part of the one group of men I've never tried dating… the one group I swore I never _would_ try dating: Pro athletes.

"Too late. You should see all the media training and interviews they have me scheduled for during the next two weeks," he groans. "I hate talking about myself, but no one just wants to talk football with me."

Suddenly aware that my hands are freezing, I call a heads-up to Em and fire three bottles at him in rapid succession.

"Nice arm, Swan," Cullen remarks.

I open my water and take a sip before I reply. "Thanks." Then, because I am an idiot, I brag. "I can catch, too. I've caught passes from some pretty famous hotshots."

"Really? Who've you caught passes from?" he asks interestedly. He lifts his water bottle to his mouth, distracting me as I watch his cheekbones become even more prominent as he drinks.

"Um, Peyton and Eli," I reply, now preoccupied by the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

He lowers his water bottle and looks down at me skeptically. "Manning? You have not," he says indignantly.

I raise one eyebrow at him, on purpose this time, as I answer. "Are you calling me a liar? Pretty judgmental considering I've only known you for forty-five minutes, Cullen. And, yes, I have. My dad played for two seasons with the Saints when their dad was QB. We were all at some big awards thing about five years ago, and they didn't believe me when I said I could run a deep route. I proved them wrong."

He nods, but doesn't look convinced that I'm being honest. "Who else?"

"Phil Simms, Dan Marino," I say. He arches an eyebrow at _me_ this time. "That was at the combine one year when my dad made me go with him. I was grounded for the rest of my life and not allowed to stay home alone even though I was almost eighteen. They were covering the event for ESPN or Fox or someone and my dad told them I was a decent receiver… as long as there's no defense." I laugh. Cullen's not laughing – or even smiling.

"Grounded for the rest of your life?" he asks, frowning.

"My dad's favorite punishment. He usually meant two weeks," I explain.

"Any other notches on your goal post?" he asks. His eyes are searching mine…still not quite trusting that I'm being truthful.

"Well, Quil of course," I say hesitantly, hating that this has begun to sound like Julio Iglesias bragging about all the girls he's screwed before_._"And Elway threw to me once, but I missed it. I was in middle school then and was faster. I over-ran, or he under-threw."

"Probably him," he nods.

"Yeah, I should definitely blame the Hall of Fame QB and not the fourteen year-old," I say, shrugging as I take a sip of my water.

"So, about dinner," he begins again. I'm going to have to shut this down.

"Sorry, Cullen," I answer.

"Edward," he corrects.

"Sorry, Edward. It's just not a good idea. If someone recognizes us, the news will be all over the city. Destroys my credibility…and probably your reputation," I reason. Then, to try and get out of this conversation gracefully, I tease him. "You know, quarterbacks are only supposed to eat dinner with skinny models who don't actually eat at all."

"I eat dinner with lots of people who aren't models," he argues belligerently. "In fact, I don't think I've ever eaten _with_ a model. As for being spotted? We could eat in. My place. I won't keep you out too late, I promise." His eyes bore into mine.

Shit. It's going to be difficult to say no to the nice, beautiful man with the fantastic ass. But I have to. I do not want the distinction of being his flavor of the week before he moves on to someone taller, prettier, stupider. Not that all tall, beautiful women are necessarily stupid. It just makes me feel better to think of them that way.

"Edward, really, you seem like a good guy, but I just….can't," I say. He nods and takes another drink of his water, nodding again when I suggest that we rejoin the rest of the group. We've already been talking too long on our own. And now there's nothing left to say.

They leave a few minutes later, and then Emmett corners me.

"So?" he prods, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

"So what?" I ask snottily, making my best annoyed face at him.

"What were you and Cullen talking about for so long?"

I roll my eyes. "His ass... my ass," I say flippantly.

"I'm serious, Bella. What the hell did he want?"

"Nothing," I answer insistently. "I apologized a couple of times. He bitched about how many interviews he has to do this week. I bragged about how many other quarterbacks I know. End of conversation."

"Uh uh. I think he has a crush on you. He kept staring at you during the show," he says knowingly. "Or maybe you're the first Seattle babe he's seen."

I force myself not to react, thereby denying Emmett of his goal – which is to needle me into an outburst during which I reveal way too much. Instead, I huff out a disbelieving breath. "Whatever. Are we posting or not?"

"Yeah. I think Newton wants to talk to us. He reiterated the no more talking about players' asses edict. Like we've ever listened to him," Emmett laughs. Then he lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper. "I think he's wearing a mirdle today."

"A what?" I ask, perplexed. I lift my water bottle to my lips.

"A mirdle. A man girdle," he explains. When I laugh, the water goes down the wrong way and I end up bent over, choking through my laughter as Emmett whacks me on the back. He should have saved that for during the show tomorrow. He could have won the game. Finally, I straighten up, wiping the tears from the corners of my eyes. Emmett looks at me seriously. "Sorry about sandbagging you there... with Cullen. But it was a good show today."

He slings his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the table in the lounge.

"I know. It was a good show," I agree, trying to ignore the thoughts of Cullen still hanging around in my head. Trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I've just tossed away the chance of a lifetime.

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**Chapter 3 will post by next Saturday. Thanks and please review!**


	3. Bump and Run

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews/follows/favorites. :) I read and treasure every one.**

**Enormous thanks to Windgirl810 for her mad beta skills! I couldn't ask for anyone better. Also, thanks to Littlecat358, Michelle0526 and Tennesseelamb for prereading and editing. Love you all a bunch!  
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**I can't stop messing with it, so all mistakes are mine.  
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* * *

Thursday night, I sit at a high-top table in the back room of Cooper's Bar, studying my notes. As more of the guys in my fantasy league arrive, I realize the good seats at the pushed-together tables are getting scarce. Without looking up from my papers, I hook my foot around the stool on my right and pull it closer, then lift my leg sideways, resting my knee on the seat.

Since our fantasy football draft was moved to tonight, I didn't have to decide whether or not to go to the final Seahawks preseason game. However, now Emmett and I will have to try to concentrate on the draft while also paying enough attention to the game to comment intelligently on it tomorrow morning. As Emmett learned last year, being distracted on draft night can wreck your fantasy season before it even starts. It wasn't really his fault; the girl he was dating insisted on coming along, but was bored and whiny once she was here. He spent the whole night trying to appease her, managing to select a terrible team for himself in the process. He finished the season dead last in the league… and I never saw what's-her-name again.

When I feel a hand clamp on my shoulder, I don't have to turn around to know it's Emmett. "You saving this for me?" he asks, moving to stand beside me.

"Yep," I answer, sliding my leg off the stool, and then using my foot to push it toward him.

"Knew I could count on you to snag us good seats," he says, setting his notebook down on the table. "Between this and your excellent research skills, you're the best work wife ever. You make my job easy."

"No matter how much you flatter me, I'm not gonna sleep with you," I remark, smirking but still not looking at him.

"That's okay. Husbands never want to screw their wives anyway," he scoffs. "That's what girlfriends are for."

Even though I know I'm falling right into his trap, I flip him off over my shoulder. He laughs loudly, as I expected, then grabs the bill of my Mariners hat, pulling it off my head. When I turn to grab it from him, he holds it above my head, out of my reach.

"Jesus! You're like the older brother I never wanted," I say through gritted teeth, standing on the rungs of the stool to yank my hat out of his grasp.

"_Hot_ older brother," he contends.

"Jackwagon older brother," I mutter, sitting back down with a huff. I put my hat on again, tucking the hair around my face underneath.

"Aw, come on, Swan," he soothes. "Will you forgive me if I get you a beer?"

I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow at him. "Maybe."

Laughing, he heads toward the bar as I face forward again, looking at the big screen hanging on the wall in front of me. The game hasn't started yet, but the local newscasters are reporting live from the sidelines as the team warms up. I smile when I see my dad walk by in the background.

"Hey, Bella," Connor says, sitting down across from me. "Can I ask you about a couple of guys?"

"Sure," I answer, powering on my laptop, and then giving him my attention. Connor is one of Emmett's best friends, but he doesn't follow football very closely. He quizzes me every year on draft day to get my opinion on his picks. For the next few minutes, he peppers me with questions about players, nodding along as I talk about touchdown to turnover ratio and net yards gained per rush attempt. When Peter – my least favorite person in our league – sits down next to Connor and immediately contradicts most of what I say, I roll my eyes and glance back up at the television.

Mistake. Big mistake.

As I look up, the local sportscaster's face, which was filling the screen, is suddenly replaced by Cullen's. I study him as the camera zooms in tighter. He looks serious… nervous. Inexplicably, my stomach drops as if I've just crested the hill of a gigantic roller coaster. What the hell?

"A little help here, Swan," Emmett says from behind me. Ripping my eyes away from the TV, I twist around to see him holding three bottles of beer and a basket of chili-smothered fries. Laughing, I take the fries and set them down, then take my beer as he hands one of the others to Connor. After taking two big gulps, I slide my eyes to the screen again and breathe a silent sigh of relief that Cullen is gone.

Our draft starts a few minutes later, and I refocus on the task at hand. Rounds one and two go quickly as everyone competes to get the star or sleeper player who will get the most fantasy points. I get the guys I wanted in both rounds, and I help Connor choose players when he's unsure.

"Time out!" Emmett bellows, holding his hands up in a T before round three begins. "Seahawks offense is on the field. Swan and I need to watch."

Everybody else at the table seems interested, too, turning their attention to one of the several televisions around the room. Picking up the fresh beer Connor brought me a few moments ago, I look up at the screen just as the offense breaks the huddle and lines up. Gladly, my stomach stays where it's supposed to this time as I open a blank document on my laptop to take notes for tomorrow.

On first down, Cullen drops back, but his feet are too jumpy. After shifting from foot to foot several times, he finally sets, cocks his arm and throws a decent pass, but the receiver isn't in the right spot to catch it. The running back gets the hand-off on second down, gaining four yards. Third down and six yards to go. Cullen will have to throw again here. I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. This time, his pass is on target, hitting the receiver in the hands… but the ball drops to the ground. There's a collective groan from the table as the punter runs onto the field.

Down the table, someone calls time in and round three begins. Although I'm listening to the draft, I'm also typing a list of topics I want to talk about tomorrow morning as Emmett reads over my shoulder.

"Swan, looks like your assessment of the new quarterback was all wrong," Peter sneers. Without lifting my head, I raise my gaze to meet his, glaring at him from under my brow.

"What? You don't think he has a nice ass?" I retort dryly.

"I… I meant the football stuff," he huffs as his face reddens. Smirking, I lower my eyes back to my screen. Bella, one. Peter the prick, zero. Not that I'm keeping score.

"She knew what you meant, dickhead," Emmett asserts, defending me. "Give the kid a chance. He's been here four fucking days and has thrown two passes."

"I was just pointing out that maybe she's not that great at evaluating players," Pete says, not ready to back down quite yet.

Emmett laughs, but it's Connor who answers. "Well, Pete, I'd agree with you except for the fact that Bella has been top five in our league the last three years. You've never finished that high."

"Yeah, I beat you in the toilet bowl last year, remember?" Emmett chimes in. "You and I had the worst teams in the league. And, Bella, what place did you finish last year?"

"First," I answer, smiling slightly. That's two for Bella. Okay, maybe I _am_ keeping score.

Knowing that Emmett is still reading over my shoulder, I type "_Thank you_" on the screen. He responds by bumping his arm against mine.

The next time Cullen – I mean the offense – takes the field, we don't stop the draft, but I still watch and scrutinize every play. They seem calmer now; Cullen's feet are quick but sure, and the receivers are catching most of the spirals coming their way. Even though they make some mistakes, they move the ball toward the end zone. Cheers erupt throughout the bar when the Seahawks score a touchdown. Smiling, I applaud, too.

As we get on with the draft, I find myself sneaking looks at the television – each time scanning the players on the sidelines until I find number seven. It's even worse when the offense is on the field again. I'm constantly focused on him, and I only see the successful catches or rushes when the instant replays are shown.

In my head, I justify my overzealous attention: I'm only watching his face to see if he's reading the defense. I'm only staring at his arms because I'm analyzing his throwing motion when he's under pressure. I'm only looking intently at his lower body to dissect his three-step-drop out of the shotgun formation. But I also can't help noticing that, although the tight pants are blue instead of white, his ass looks pretty damn good in them.

I'm finding it difficult to pull my eyes away from him at all – I can't explain it… I can't stop it. And as the game goes on, I'm more and more afraid that it has less and less to do with football.

At the conclusion of the draft, I study my roster, frowning as I realize that I didn't choose a very good team. I was too distracted to select players who are likely to complement each other and rack up the points. Unfortunately, my fantasy season is probably screwed.

While I pack up my laptop and notebook, I slide off the barstool and raise my eyes to the screen one last time. Cullen is shaking hands with the opposing quarterback as the game ends. Standing still, I press my right hand against my stomach, hoping to squash the butterflies flitting wildly around inside. With a sigh, I acknowledge, at least to myself, that my fantasy season isn't the only thing that's probably screwed.

"You all right, Bella?" Emmett asks quietly.

Turning toward him, I force myself to smile slightly. "Yeah. Too many chili fries," I complain, wishing that really _was_ the cause of my discomfort. "I'm heading home. See you tomorrow."

"See ya, Swan," he answers, patting my back. "Take some antacids or something. I need you in the morning."

"I'll be there," I promise. "I'll be fine." I hope.

* * *

During the pre-show meeting on Friday morning, Emmett and I are in agreement about how well the Seahawks played the night before, despite the fact that they didn't win. However, too much accord between the hosts is boring for our listeners, so I volunteer to play devil's advocate and point out the areas which need improvement.

We name a few things on both defense and offense that we can discuss. I also identify the – admittedly few – weaknesses I saw in Cullen's game. He needs to work on not looking directly at his number one receiver; it tips off the defense. And he's not a great rusher, so he should stay in the pocket as long as he can, even if he's pressured. I nitpick a couple of other things, but that's it. I don't see any other big flaws.

Almost as soon as the show starts, Newton plays a few post-game comments, during which Cullen basically steals my thunder by pointing out the same errors I was going to talk about. Fantastic. Not only is he a pretty good quarterback, a nice guy, and great looking, he's also smart, willing to admit mistakes, and self-effacing without being annoying.

Cue the butterflies.

But I ignore them for the moment because I'm so angry with Newton. He couldn't have told me during the pre-show that I was going to talk about exactly the same things Cullen did? It had to be obvious that I hadn't listened to any of Cullen's post-game presser.

Mindful of the webcam, I completely turn my back to it as I look at Newton in the control room, mouthing, "What the fuck?" His only answer is to smile smugly at me. Jackwagon.

I spend the first hour of the show agitated… on edge. And a little bit pissed off by the way my stomach flutters nervously and my heart races every time we play Cullen's sound bites. I also shuffle my feet almost constantly under the table, which I know from past experience drives Emmett nuts.

"Jesus, Swan, stop all that fidgeting. What are you so freaking jumpy about today?" he growls during a break. Because of the webcam, I can't flip him off like I'd like. I shrug and refuse to talk to him instead.

I calm down enough to finish the show though, vowing to stop thinking about Cullen… about how good he looked last night – in command on the field, with his helmet off on the sidelines, smiling as he talked to some of the other players. I sigh, looking over at Emmett. He's studying me curiously again. I roll my eyes at him and really do wipe away most thoughts of Cullen as we come back from break.

Once Friday's post-show meeting is over, I bolt from the station, avoiding talking to Emmett about my erratic behavior today. I run a few errands, and then meet Sue for a late lunch and shopping. She tells me she heard the show this morning, but I successfully deflect her more in-depth questions about my opinion on the team… and the new QB.

When I get to my building several hours later, I run into one of the maintenance men in the hallway.

"Hey, Bella. Good news," he says.

"Really, Dean? I could use some today," I respond with a sigh as I unlock my door.

"Yeah," he smiles. "Everything's dried out in your place. We'll replace the warped hardwoods on Monday and Tuesday, and then paint on Wednesday. Sound good?"

"Yes. Thanks," I answer walking inside and starting to close the door.

"Uh, so we need you to pack up everything laying around. And you should unload all the kitchen cabinets, too. We'll kick up a lot of dust with the hardwood and sheetrock repair. But we'll cover all the furniture for you," he informs me, quickly backing up the hallway, still grinning as he delivers the _bad_ news. "Bye, Bella. Have a great weekend."

"Oh, _you, too_," I reply sarcastically, knowing that I'll be spending part of my days off packing and moving my own stuff.

When I get inside, I see that Dean left several boxes and tape for me. I'll have to remember to thank him when I see him again. He really is a sweet guy. Maybe I should date _him_, except he's about twenty years older than me… and married.

After pouring myself a glass of white wine, I collapse onto my blue and white striped couch, which amazingly stayed dry during the flood last Monday. I sink back into the deep cushions, prop my feet on the coffee table, and then turn on the local news.

"Ugh! Freaking Cullen again!" I exclaim when he shows up on the screen. The sports anchor is analyzing the Seahawks' performance last night. Embarrassingly, within a minute I find myself arguing out loud with some of his judgments… especially the ones criticizing the new quarterback.

"He was under pressure!"

"I'd like to see _you_ throw off your back foot when a 300-pound linebacker is breathing down your neck!"

"Sure, why don't you make your point by showing the two inaccurate passes he threw over and over?"

When they play a clip of Cullen's press conference from the night before, I have the same reaction I did this morning – floppy stomach, pounding heart. While I watch him, I chug the remaining wine in my glass, and then reach forward to set it down on the coffee table. Instead of sitting back up, I let my head fall to my knees, which seems to magnify the sound of my rushing blood.

"What is wrong with me?" I wonder, muttering the words softly against my denim-clad thighs. I've always prided myself on my objectivity – even when it came to the Seahawks. Since I basically grew up around the organization and since my dad is a coach, I'm a fan, but I've never let that overshadow my impartiality. I've never blindly defended the team, let alone one specific player, against critics before.

And I've _never_ talked back to the people on TV.

I look up again when they show footage of him arriving at CenturyLink Field this morning. Then I pick up the remote and turn off the television, thoroughly disgusted with myself… and my fidgety legs and racing pulse.

Resolving to use my nervous energy for something productive, I pull my hair up into a ponytail, change into old shorts and an even older Mariners t-shirt, and get to work packing up my kitchen. I carefully wrap the antique bowls and teacups that belonged to my Grandma Swan. The rest of my things aren't meaningful to me – and mostly came from Target – so I'm not as gentle when I box them.

A little after nine o'clock, I carry the last box into my bedroom, and make a face when I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. I'm a mess. Some of my hair has fallen from the ponytail holder. My t-shirt is ripped along the shoulder seam. There's another small hole halfway down my back, made by the cigarette of a jerk I dated three summers ago. This outfit would definitely not pass Newton's webcam dress code… which kind of makes me want to wear it Monday.

Jeez, I'm such a loser. Exhausted, home alone, and thinking about work on a Friday night – _early_ on a Friday night. Other people my age are probably getting ready to go out, while I'm ready to go to bed.

Shaking my head, I walk back to the kitchen and look longingly at the empty candy wrapper laying on the counter. While I was packing, I finished the dark chocolate bar that I bought at the gourmet grocer last Monday. I wish I had just one tiny square left – or maybe another whole bar.

My growling stomach reminds me that I didn't eat dinner. I open the refrigerator and pick around a little bit. I throw away an expired carton of yogurt before closing the door. Then I look in the freezer. Two diet dinners. Banana popsicles. A box of garlic bread. Nothing I want to eat.

All right. That's it. I pick up my keys from the counter and head out the door. I'm going to the grocery store.

I _deserve_ more chocolate.

* * *

I wander through the market, putting whatever the hell I want into my cart. I know better than to shop while I'm hungry, and I'll regret buying all this junk food later. But at the moment, it sounds delicious. When I get to the chip aisle, I decide I can't live another day without jalapeno pretzels and make a sharp turn with my cart.

My eyebrows raise when I see a guy about halfway down the aisle, facing away from me. He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a white t-shirt and dark jeans that are kind of tight.

I take several steps into the aisle, still studying him from the back. He's probably married… or gay. Single, hetero, hot guys don't grocery shop on Friday nights. When he turns to the side to grab a bag of chips off the shelf, I get a good look at his profile. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. It's worse than if he was married or gay.

It's Cullen.

I feel my body descend into fight or flight mode and fleetingly wonder why he affects me this way. As the adrenaline kicks in, my heart bumps unevenly, my breaths are quick and shallow, my stomach is fluttering again… and I want to get the hell out of here before he sees me.

Hoping for a quick getaway, I back out of the aisle at warp speed, not bothering to turn around and look behind myself. And not remembering the giant display of football tailgate items stacked at the end of the aisle. Too late, I feel it at my back as I crash into it, still moving fast.

I cringe as boxes of processed cheese, bags of tortilla chips and cans of chili tumble down from the precarious pyramid they were arranged in. The only upside is that I am able to remain standing. Cullen turns his head toward the commotion and does a double take when he recognizes me. So much for my great escape. His lips curl into a smirk, and then into his beautiful, crooked smile just before he cracks up. Turning around, he pushes his cart to my end of the aisle, his face reddening as he continues laughing uncontrollably.

"Shut up," I grumble when he's close enough. Crouching down, I start to pick up the fallen food.

"Oh, come on. This is funny. Weren't you watching where you were going?" he asks.

"Clearly not," I reply snottily, tilting my head back to look up at him. "I was going backwards, trying to get out of here before I had to have another conversation with you about your ass."

Snickering again, he bends down to help me pick up the mess. Watching him, I can't help but smile because it really is funny, even though I'm embarrassed. A couple of high school age stock boys come to my rescue as well, and everything's picked up within a couple of minutes.

When we're done, Cullen pushes his cart up right next to mine and examines the food inside.

"Christ, Swan, are you eight? Frosted Flakes, Ding Dongs, ice cream. Planning on keeping your teeth long?" he asks teasingly.

"I've had a crappy week, and now I'm at the grocery store on a freaking Friday night," I argue. "I'm allowed to buy comfort food."

His expression turns from amused to concerned in an instant. "What happened to you this week?" he asks.

His interest takes me by surprise, and I wind up giving him a shortened version of the mess the water leak made. Then I apologize for being overly dramatic about it.

He shakes his head, smiling down at me. "Let me take you to dinner," he suggests.

Hell. When he asked me last Tuesday, I thought he was cute and nice, but the cons outweighed the pros for me at that point. That's not the case tonight. I want to go. I _really_ want to go – but I know I can't.

"I appreciate the offer, but… I'm sorry. No," I say quietly, dropping my eyes to the floor after I've answered him. When I look back up, he's studying my face.

He nods at me and I make an excuse about needing to finish my shopping. As soon as he turns his cart away, I high-tail it to the self check-out and get out of the store before I can make an even bigger fool of myself.

I ignore all thoughts of Cullen as I put away groceries. I don't think of him at all as I settle on the couch with a Diet Coke and a king-size bag of peanut M&Ms. But when I go into the bathroom to get ready for bed, I gasp at my reflection, and then close my eyes and groan. It didn't even occur to me that I looked like _this_ when I ran into him. Ratty hair and clothes. Face streaked with dried sweat. Flecks of mascara settled into the creases under my eyes.

Embarrassed all over again, I rush through my nighttime routine, eager to escape into a peaceful, Cullen-free slumber. I have no problem falling asleep as soon as I'm between the cool, crisp sheets. However, my night is anything but peaceful and Cullen-free. I toss and turn. I dream of running… in tunnels, on football fields, along beaches… away from him, toward him, with him. Always _him_.

It's the first night I dream of Cullen. When I wake up Saturday morning, I smile wryly as I admit to myself that it probably won't be the last.

* * *

At ten o'clock the next Tuesday morning, I go to the ladies room at the station and touch up my makeup. Wanting to look polished and professional, I brush my hair and pull it into a low ponytail. I change out of my jeans and into a straight, knee-length skirt. But refusing to wear the uncomfortable, three-inch heels any longer than necessary, I leave my flip flops on and carry my dress shoes as I walk up the hallway toward my office. When I hear someone whistle behind me, I know it's Riley even before he speaks.

"Lookin' good, Bella," he calls. "Hot date?"

"Quit it," I gripe, frowning over my shoulder at him. "I have a freaking lunch meeting."

"Damn, you were never this grouchy when you were working with _me_. What the hell has Emmett done to you?" he teases, following me.

He flops into the extra chair in my tiny office and stays for a while, making me realize how much I miss talking to him every day. Before he leaves, we agree to have drinks after the Seahawks rally we're emceeing on Friday night.

Once he's out the door, I spend a little time looking at the Mariners schedule for the rest of the season, but I can't concentrate. I'm nervous about my lunch meeting with the station owners, worried about why they want to speak to me away from the station… alone.

When my phone rings a few minutes later, I pick it up to see who's calling. My dad. I smile as I answer and ask what's up. He says things are dead around the stadium and he'd like to take me to lunch. Feeling guilty because I haven't seen him for over two weeks, I explain about my noon meeting, but offer to stop by on my way. The restaurant is only a few blocks from CenturyLink Field anyway.

Twenty minutes later, the security guard waves me through the gate into the staff parking lot at the stadium. Since Tuesday is players' day off, the lot isn't crowded at all – and I should be able to safely avoid running into any tall, hot quarterbacks.

The maze of tunnels and lower hallways is deserted, so the clacking of my high heels echoes loudly off the concrete walls as I walk toward my dad's office. Once I reach it, I knock quietly on the door.

"Come in," he calls. When he looks up and sees me, his face breaks into a smile and he stands to come around his desk and hug me. "Bells! That was fast. How's my girl?"

"Good, Dad," I say, squeezing him tightly, then leaning back to kiss his cheek.

I sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. We talk football – but not _Seahawks_ football – a little bit. Off the record, of course. He asks about my personal life, as usual. I sidestep those questions and ask about Sue, even though I saw her Friday and text her daily. I'm not sure how much of that he knows. She's always been very good about keeping things said between us _just_ between us. Although she and my dad didn't get married until I was in college, she's been around since I was fifteen and has helped me through some pretty bumpy times. In some ways, she's more like a mother to me than my mom is, although I would never tell my mom that. Sue's more nurturing. Renee really prefers to be more like a friend. I love each of them and figure I'm lucky to have them both.

A brisk knock interrupts our conversation just as my dad steers it back in my direction, making me want to kiss the assistant coach who peeks around the door.

"Sorry, Chief. Coach needs you in the war room," he says, then turns to me. "Hey, Bells."

"Hi," I answer, and then check my watch. I still have some time before lunch, but I don't want my dad to feel bad. I smile as I look up at him again, picking up my car keys from my lap. "It's okay. I should get going anyway."

We walk into the hallway together and hug goodbye. He turns to go toward the team meeting rooms while I turn the opposite direction, making my way toward the parking lot. As I round the corner into the corridor leading outside, I'm practically run over by a large, sweaty, handsome quarterback.

"Whoa!" he says, reaching out to steady me as I teeter on my ridiculously high heels. He grips my upper arms firmly, but his touch is gentle. I blink stupidly at him twice, and then pull it together as he releases me.

"Jesus, Cullen. Didn't you hear me coming? You could have killed me," I quip, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Did you put a GPS chip in me, Swan? Everywhere I go, you're there," he replies with a smirk.

"No. In fact, since it's players' day off, I thought I'd be spared from having to look at _that_." I wave my hand in a circle in front of his face.

He chuckles lightly. "I came in for a little extra practice. You know, I'm the new guy around here. Gotta impress the coaches. You hanging around for a while?"

"Nope. Just on my way out," I answer, trying to ignore the way my stupid heart is hammering in my chest, the way I can still feel the heat from his hands on my arms.

"Hey! As long as you're here, want to prove you can run a deep route?" he asks.

"Hmm, I'm not exactly dressed for it, Cullen. I'll have to get a rain check."

"What? You can't run in a skirt?"

"I can run in the skirt," I scoff. "It's the heels that are the problem."

"So run barefoot," he offers with a shrug. I could, but I really should get away from him.

"You'll get in trouble," I say noncommittally... but I feel myself wanting to do it. Crap!

"No, I won't. That's not even a good excuse. You're chickening out. Afraid you haven't got it anymore, Swan?" he taunts. I'm aware that he's intentionally trying to provoke me, which makes it even more stupid that I fall for it.

"I'm not afraid," I insist belligerently, cringing at the tone of my voice. Jesus, I sound like a little kid.

"Prove it," he challenges, narrowing his eyes for an instant. It's the equivalent of a double-dog dare – and I've never been good at turning those down.

"Fine. Lead the way," I tell him, holding my arm out for him to go first.

"Ha ha, I don't think so. No more unimpeded looks at my ass, Swan. I don't want any more sound bites about my body parts playing in the locker room while I'm trying to concentrate on the game plan," he laughs.

Why do those comments I made about _his_ ass keep coming back to bite _mine_?

With an exaggerated huff, I start down the tunnel that leads to the field, my heels clicking rapidly on the cement. When we get to the end, I stop and kick my shoes off, then bend over to pick them up before stepping on the turf. Yeah, I realize that makes my skirt hike up in the back a little. And, yeah, I realize Cullen's still behind me.

I carry my shoes and keys toward the sideline bench, setting them down while I watch Cullen get a football from the bag laying nearby. I know I won't be able to run fast in this pencil skirt, so I decide to roll the waistband a few times. When I notice that Cullen is watching me, I roll it once more, so that it's just above mid-thigh. Then I look up at him and grin.

"Okay. I think I'm ready. Will you toss me a couple of short ones first to warm up? I don't want to suck when you go deep," I say, not realizing of my poor choice of words until I hear his laughter echo through the empty stadium. Shifting my weight onto my right leg, I put my hands on my hips and let my irritation come through in my tone. "Are we doing this or not?"

"Sorry, sorry. Five yards?"

I nod and walk to the forty-five yard line. He lines up evenly with me, calls go, then drops back and throws the first pass. I undercut and miss it.

"My bad. Same spot," I call as I pick up the ball and toss it back to him.

He fires again, and this time I catch it. When I look at him, his eyebrows are raised... he's surprised. Guess he still thought I was lying.

"One more," I say. I catch the next one, too, but turn too far toward it. It hits me right in the boob.

Fuck. He throws hard. Tears spring to my eyes as I press my forearm against my chest and bend forward slightly.

"Shit! Sorry, Swan. Did I hurt you?" he calls. Determined not to be a wuss, I take a deep breath and straighten up. I chuck the ball at him as I walk back.

"I'm good. I just forgot to protect myself. I'm starting to remember why I don't do this very often though," I answer, still feeling the sting. I'll definitely have a bruise. "All right. I have a lunch thing and don't want to look like I've been snagging deep balls. Please don't laugh at the way I phrased that."

"Okay." His lips curl into that sexy, goddamned, lop-sided smile. I can tell he's struggling to do as I asked.

"One shot, Cullen. That's all you get. You'd better hit me."

"I'll do my best, Swan. You want to run out or post?" he asks.

"Skinny post."

Again, he raises his eyebrows, this time seemingly impressed that I know what a skinny post route is. "Whenever you're ready."

"Give me a count this time," I order, lining up on his far right at the fifty yard line. I get set in my stance: right leg back, ready to push off; upper body angled forward slightly. When I look at him, he smiles at me and I roll my eyes in return, shaking my head when I hear him chuckle.

"7 – 7 – 25 – legs – hut, hut," he calls and smacks the ball against his left hand. I take off at full speed, sprinting up the field 15 yards, and then cutting across toward the center of the field. After another 15 yards, I turn my head to spot the ball and damned if the thing doesn't fall right into my hands five yards later. I catch it easily and continue running, not even trying to stop the grin that spreads across my face.

"Woohoo, Swan! Nice catch," he yells. I run to the end zone and spike the ball, then turn around to curtsy cheekily at him. He's smiling widely as he jogs toward me. I stoop to pick up the ball, and then toss it at him when he gets close.

"You're not going to try to chest bump me or smack my ass, are you?" I ask, smirking at him.

"I wasn't planning to, but I'm game if you are," he laughs. I watch as he licks his top lip and steps closer to me.

My heart, which was beginning to slow after my exertion, picks up speed again. It's thumping along to the beat of its own drummer…. and I think the drummer might be Cullen. Oh, shit.

"No, no. I'll settle for you eating your doubting words about me running a go route," I reply, grabbing the ball from his hands and taking two steps back.

"All right, legs. You win. You've proved your point."

"Legs?" I fire the ball straight for his chest. He catches it before it hits him and tucks it under his arm.

He shrugs. "You're fast."

I nod. His eyes are all sparkly and the corners are crinkled up in the cutest way. Oh, no. Oh, crap. I need to get the freaking hell out of here.

"Thanks. Well, this was fun, but I really have to go." Really. Even though I'm not moving my feet at all at the moment. Looking down, I unroll the waistband of my skirt and try to smooth it out once it's back to its original, more modest length.

"So….lunch date, huh?" he asks casually. When I glance at him, he's nonchalantly tossing the ball up and catching it again and again. I can tell he's trying to act less interested than he actually is… at least I think he is. Do I hope he is? Damn it, I think I do.

"It's actually business," I answer. I can't help it. I don't want him to think I'm dating someone… even though I know I can't date _him_.

"Business," he repeats, smiling.

"Yeah. Lunch with the station owners. They're either firing me or they're going to try to make me stay on the morning show with Emmett indefinitely," I say as we begin to walk back toward the sideline.

"You don't want to stay on the morning show?"

"I'll do it for a while – maybe until spring. But not permanently. I like the mid-day slot. And I _hate _getting up at four o'clock."

"Bella, I'd really like to take you to –," he starts, but I interrupt.

"You seem like a nice kid," I sigh. "But I don't date athletes."

"You think I'm a kid?" he asks, sounding offended… and totally ignoring my statement about athletes. "Aren't we about the same age?"

"I don't know. I'm almost 26."

"I just turned 25."

"Eeek. Yeah, you're a kid. I don't date younger men either," I tease as we stop beside the bench and turn to face each other. "I can't be caught cougaring it up with the local hotshot. It's bad for my old spinster image." I try to play it off jokingly, but he doesn't look amused.

"I'm not even an entire year younger than you," he protests, his vivid, green gaze burning into mine.

I sigh again, wiping the smartass look off my face before I answer him. "We have too many crossed wires, Cullen. The whole 'you work with my dad' thing is bad enough, but added to the fact that it's my _job_ to critique your on-the-field performance, it's just… too messy. Too complicated."

He purses his lips, but nods resignedly. "Well, I guess I'll see you around then, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm sure we'll run into each other. Good luck Sunday," I say.

"Thanks."

After picking up my shoes and keys, I tell him goodbye and walk toward the tunnel entrance where we came in fifteen minutes ago. Pausing as I step off the turf, I look back at him to see if he's watching me. He is. I lift my hand to wave, and he does the same before he turns away, heading for the sideline stairs that lead to the locker room.

Unexpectedly sad, I vow that I'm not going to visit my dad at the stadium any more until I'm over this… this… whatever it is. I can't risk having to be alone with Cullen for another second.

If he asks me out again, I don't think I have it in me to turn him down.

* * *

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	4. The Pocket Collapses

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! Real life. What can I say? :)  
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**Thanks, as always, to my lovely friends who beta/edit: Windgirl810 and Littlecat358. I love them!  
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**I did not let my prereaders preread this chapter... but I love them, too, and if they think they're getting out of it permanently, they're wrong. Michelle0526 and Tennesseelamb, you guys are the best!  
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**Thanks for the reviews/follows/favorites. They make my day!  
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**Thanks for reading!  
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* * *

As I drive to the restaurant, I _should _be focused on this meeting with Kate and Charlotte. I _should_ be concerned about what they're going to say. I _should_ be preparing a defense for every one of my professional transgressions, just in case I'm being called here today to answer one – or many – of Newton's complaints.

But I'm not doing any of those things. I'm thinking about Cullen.

"I'm being sensible… mature," I reassure myself. The explanation I gave Cullen about why I can't go out with him is perfectly rational. Even if he doesn't recognize the potential for occupational disaster for each of us, _I_ do. "I made the right decision."

So why does it feel so wrong?

Sighing, I park my truck in the lot at Raphael's. I flip the visor down and reapply my lipstick, and then check my hair. Okay, deep breath. No more dwelling on Cullen.

As I get out of my truck, I remind myself that I may have to fight for my job during this lunch. And I really love my job. There's nothing I'd rather do to earn a living. If they tell me I have to stop deliberately annoying Newton, I'll stop. If they tell me I have to stay on mornings, I'll continue dragging my ass out of bed at four a.m… regardless of what I said about only staying on until spring to Cullen.

Cullen.

Dammit! I don't want to think about him anymore. I don't want to remember the look in his green eyes after he asked me out and I turned him down. _Again_. I don't want to relive the ache I felt in my chest when he waved goodbye and turned away.

I don't even want to imagine how painful it would be to watch him walk away if we were actually in a… shit, I can't think about this now. Or ever.

At the door to the restaurant, I grit my teeth and force myself to smile. When I tell the hostess whom I'm here to meet, she leads me toward one of the several curtained-off, private rooms along one wall. Even though I'm a few minutes early, Kate and Charlotte are already seated at the table, and they both stand as I enter.

"Thanks for coming, Bella," Kate says as we shake hands. In every meeting I've had with them, she's taken the lead when we've talked business.

Once I've said hello to Charlotte, too, I sit down. After nervously taking a sip of the white wine Kate pours for me, I start to relax, concluding that since we're talking about the weather and which dishes on the menu sound good, I must not be in that much hot water.

Soon after we order, Kate folds her hands and rests them on top of the table.

"Bella, you know that you were one of the first people Charlotte and I hired after our father retired," she begins. I answer affirmatively. "And since the days when you were a poorly-paid intern, you've been a hard-working and reliable employee. And, most importantly, you've been great on the air."

"Thank you," I reply, smiling slightly while I wait for the part of this speech that begins with "but".

"But none of that had really prepared us for the last two weeks," she says.

Oh, crap. I _am_ in trouble. Before I can interrupt to apologize, Charlotte interjects.

"We hoped moving you to the morning show for a while would help staunch the listener loss after Brian's arrest and the subsequent bad publicity KSST received," she asserts. "When your first day coincided with the arrival of the new Seahawks quarterback, we thought we were catching a lucky break. In a situation like that, fans will tune in to hear what's going on with their team."

"Right," I agree, nodding cautiously.

"We had no idea exactly how many would listen," she adds, "or whether they'd stay."

As Charlotte is speaking, Kate pulls a folder from the briefcase laying on the chair beside her. Opening it, she takes out the top sheet of paper and hands it to me.

"These are the Arbitron ratings for the last two weeks, Bella. The week before you started with Emmett and last week," she explains. Looking down, I study the numbers. They're good. I think I'm _not_ getting fired. "You can see the data is impressive. There's been virtually no drop-off since your first day, and overall listenership was up over four-tenths of a ratings point last week."

"This is great," I nod. "But, you know, it's Emmett's show. I'm just helping out."

"Yes, you are helping," Kate laughs. "And in recognition of that, we have a proposal for you."

She hands me a document that I quickly realize is a contract extension. As I read through the first few paragraphs, my heart begins to race. They're offering me a sizeable raise – and adding two years to my deal. They're also adding a non-compete clause; if I leave the station, I can't work in radio anywhere within a fifty-mile radius for a year.

"Uh, this is extremely generous," I comment, looking back up at Charlotte, and then Kate. "Am I going to have to do a bunch of crazy stunts? Because I draw the line at running races dressed as a bottle of ketchup."

"No," Kate says, chuckling. "Other than the events you already participate in, nothing else is mandatory."

"I'm just… I don't want to sound ungrateful," I offer, wrinkling my nose slightly, "but this seems like a bit of an overreaction for one week of good ratings."

Charlotte turns to grin at her sister. "I told you she'd see through it, Katie," she boasts, and then takes over the conversation for a moment. "Bella, we absolutely think you're a valuable part of the KSST team. But the truth is we've heard through the grapevine that KSEA is going to try to lure you away. They don't have any female on-air talent, and they know that your personality and knowledge are attracting new listeners. We're offering you a package we hope will be lucrative enough to entice you not to jump to our largest competitor in the market."

"Oh!" I exclaim with a laugh. They both look at me oddly, wondering why I'm amused, I guess. "When you asked to meet with me, I figured I was in trouble… you know, for some of the stuff I said last week."

"About Edward Cullen?" Kate asks, bending her head forward. The back of my neck prickles at the mention of his name. "I'll admit I wasn't sure it was going to turn out as well as it did, but you wouldn't have been disciplined over that either way. It was entertaining and encouraged listener participation."

"And when Mike got him to come into the studio the next day, it was a real coup for the station," Charlotte adds. Yuck. Praise for Newton. I bite my tongue. _Hard_. "We were the first media outlet in Seattle to get an interview with the new QB. And he seemed like a good sport."

"He was," I agree, feeling my cheeks heat. I pick up my wine and take a big gulp.

Before either of them speaks again, the waitress arrives with our entrees. The talk at the table turns away from business as we eat. They each talk about their kids a little, and then Charlotte pulls out her phone to show me a few pictures of the anniversary trip she and her husband took to Paris last month.

"It's the most romantic thing he's ever done for me. And after twenty-five years, it's nice to still be surprised," she laughs. "What about you, Bella? Are you dating anyone special?"

"No, no," I answer, looking down into my wineglass and using my index finger to circle the rim repeatedly.

"Well, the right guy will show up someday," Kate says. "Charlotte always thought she was unlucky in love, but then she met David. They were inseparable immediately."

"I remember you being the same way when you met John," Charlotte replies, "even though you tried to fight it at first."

"I did," Kate nods, smiling as she reminisces. "I thought it was ridiculous the way my heart would speed up when I saw him. I was very independent and content on my own. Until I met him. From the day I first spoke to him, I just wanted to know him."

"Let us old married ladies live vicariously through you, Bella," Charlotte pleads. "Has any man ever made you feel that way?"

Just one. My stomach simultaneously flutters with excitement and clenches in fear. This is _not_ something I would reveal to my bosses though, even if our lunch has taken a girlfriend-like turn for the moment. And even if the man wasn't a professional athlete whose every on-the-field move is subject to being torn apart and scrutinized… by me.

Dropping my eyes, I use my fork to pull off another bite of grilled salmon.

"Huh uh," I lie just before lifting the fork to my mouth.

"Well, it'll happen sooner or later," she predicts. "And take it from me, when it happens, it's pointless to fight it. It's like trying to stay on your feet while flood waters rise around you. You might as well allow yourself to be swept along."

They both laugh lightly. I fake laugh as I set my fork down; I'm not going to be able to eat any more. And I definitely want to switch topics.

"Who needs all that?" I ask, still forcing myself to smile. "I had a _real_ flood in my apartment last week."

My comment successfully diverts the conversation, and I spend several minutes relaying the story, then lamenting the fact that my apartment is now a construction zone. Half of the new, pre-finished wood floor is installed, and all the living room furniture is covered with drop cloths.

Once we're finished eating, we stand to leave. After thanking them for lunch and for the proposal, I promise to get back to them soon with an answer.

"Are either of you coming to the Seahawks kickoff rally Friday night?" I ask as we walk to the parking lot together.

Charlotte says no, but Kate looks at me curiously. "Have you heard which players are attending? I might make an appearance if Jasper Whitlock is going to be there."

Laughing, I nod at her. Besides being one of the best tight ends in the league, Whitlock is a Southern gentleman, great-looking and very personable. My dad introduced us when the Seahawks drafted him four years ago, and he's always been really nice to me. During training camp last year, I spent so long talking to him one day that my dad asked if we had something going on. We didn't. Even if I didn't have my own personal non-fraternization policy where pro athletes are concerned, we didn't hit it off that way. But I consider us casual friends, and he comes on the radio with me every time I ask him.

"He's confirmed," I answer.

"He's my favorite player," she says, raising her eyebrows. "And not just because of the – how did you put it? – way he looks in the tight, white pants."

"Yeah, that's it," I laugh, relieved that they're not upset about the way my big mouth tends to cause a stir.

"What about Edward Cullen?" she asks.

"Uh, um, he's not on the list," I respond, hating the way my pulse reacts – as usual – to the mention of him.

"The new face of the franchise isn't coming? Oh, I bet he shows up," Charlotte predicts. "He'll be getting all kinds of pressure from the front office."

"Maybe," I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. But my racing heart is already eagerly anticipating seeing him again, because I agree that he'll probably show.

And I'm not sure what I'm more afraid will happen if I get stuck talking to him – that he'll ask me out again… or that he won't.

* * *

Friday afternoon, I lean across my bathroom sink, getting closer to the mirror to apply eyeliner. I rarely wear more than neutral eye shadow and mascara on my eyes, but Newton reminded me this morning that I "should be high-def camera-ready" for the rally. Even though I doubt the local news crews will get me on film, I guess it's a good opportunity to use all the crap at the bottom of my makeup bag.

The last three days, I've been so amiable at the station that I deserve a halo. My refusal to respond to Newton's repeated jabs has earned me both praise and disappointment from Emmett – and dirty looks from Newton. The odds are against me holding my tongue forever though. Especially since he's actively attempting to piss me the hell off every morning.

After getting dressed in Bermuda shorts and a burnout Seahawks t-shirt, I put on black wedge sandals and walk to the kitchen. The fresh paint smell is slowly retreating from my apartment, and last night Sue came by to help me unpack everything I boxed up last weekend. Cringing, I remember what happened when she mentioned a certain quarterback.

"_Thanks for coming to help, but I feel guilty," I said soon after she arrived, walking to the refrigerator. I grabbed two cans of soda from inside, and then offered one to her. Popping the top on mine, I swallowed two big sips. "I know Dad doesn't like for you to be gone in the evenings during the season since he's gone all weekend."_

"_Edward Cullen asked Charlie to spend some extra time with him in the film room," she explained. "So he's still at the stadium. Said he'd probably be pretty late. Sweetie, are you all right?"_

_Coughing, I nodded, waving her off when she moved closer. "Wrong way," I sputtered, pointing to my throat._

"_Well, anyway, your dad's very impressed with the new quarterback," she continued. "Says he's going to be a great trigger man. Did I say that right?"_

"_Yes," I responded with a laugh, my voice croaky. What the hell? I almost choked to death on my Diet Coke just because she said his name… or maybe because my dad is hanging out with him… or maybe both. _

"_You'd think after this many years with both of you, I'd be familiar with all the terminology," she replied. "But sometimes I still can't keep it all straight." _

After that, I couldn't change the subject fast enough, and neither of us mentioned him again. However, my brain, which I'd successfully kept from thinking about him too much since Tuesday, rebelled, fixating on him almost constantly for the rest of the night.

Glancing at the oven clock, I see that I have a few minutes before I have to leave, so I pick up the brown paper-wrapped package laying with the rest of today's mail on my counter. It's from my mom. I know it's a birthday gift, and I intended to wait until my actual birthday on Sunday to open it, but I decide to open it now instead.

Carefully, I tear the paper off the box and lift the lid, pausing to read the card she put inside. I take the protective sheet of cotton padding off the top, gasping when I see the silver and turquoise necklace and earrings underneath. When I was in Phoenix two weeks ago, I practically drooled over this jewelry when my mom and I were shopping, but I decided it was too pricey to buy. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought of my mom going back to get it for me.

Rushing to the bedroom, I stand in front of my dresser mirror and remove the sapphire earrings that were my Grandma Swan's, replacing them with the dangly earrings my mom sent. Then I put on the long, thin necklace. It's beautiful, but not flashy. I love it.

Realizing that I'd better get going, I head out the door, pausing to pick up my black wristlet from the kitchen counter. As soon as I'm on the sidewalk, I take my phone out of my pocket and call my mom to thank her. We talk during my entire five-block walk to Lucky's Pub, where the rally is being held.

After a cloudy morning, the afternoon has turned beautiful – warm and sunny. As I approach the bar, I can see that the street is blocked off and the stage is set up. Bar employees are setting up mobile beer carts. At the side of the stage, our radio remote crew is busily running wires from the microphones and speakers to all the sound mixing equipment. A few feet away, Newton is holding a clipboard and talking to Seth. Emmett is standing next to them, staring at the handful of Seahawks cheerleaders – Seagals – who have arrived.

As I tell my mom goodbye and hang up, Emmett sees me. Frowning, he takes a few steps toward me as I approach.

"Whoa, Swan. Why are you so dressed up?" he asks when I reach him. "I almost didn't recognize you."

"Shut up. I'm not dressed up," I answer as I make a face at him. He can't suppress his quick grin of pleasure at getting a rise out of me.

"Yes, you are," he insists, trying not to laugh. "You're not wearing jeans and a hoody. Your hair is straight and shiny. You're wearing actual makeup. Jesus, Swan, you look like a…. a….. a girl."

"I always look like a girl, jackwagon," I retort.

"Not _this_ kind of girl. Are you wearing fake eyelashes?" he cracks, leaning close to my face.

"Personal space, Mac," I snap, shoving him back and using the nickname he hates. "I just put on bronzer and nicer clothes."

"Seriously, what's going on? You trying to land a man? Your biological clock starting to kick in? Tick, tock," he teases. "You _are_ turning 26 this weekend, right?"

I roll my eyes at him, but nod, partly happy that he remembers. Riley has forgotten my birthday the last two years.

"Jesus, Swan. That was completely sexy. You should definitely do that at whoever you're trying to pick up. It's hot," Emmett declares. Without thinking, I roll my eyes again. "Yeah, totally hot."

"Emmett," I growl, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Cool your jets, Swan. I'm not trying to offend you. I'm just saying you went from looking like one of the guys this morning to …. _all_ woman now," he says. Although it still sounds insulting, I know that he's trying to compliment me.

Riley arrives a few minutes later, and Newton goes over the schedule for the three-hour broadcast while Seth hands us our ear pieces. The crowd is steadily growing, and several more Seagals have gathered on the side of the stage near the pep band. I haven't seen any players yet, but since they don't go on the air for another two hours, that's not alarming.

At four o'clock, we're on. We sit on stools on the stage and interview a few retired players, and then a sports columnist from the _Seattle Times_. Emmett, Riley and I work well together, and I'm having a great time except for one thing: Newton. He's constantly talking in our ears – I think just to hear his own voice.

The pep band plays during commercial breaks, and the guy-heavy crowd cheers loudly every time since the Seagals come on stage in their tiny shorts and go-go boots to do high kicks. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I'm sure they're nice girls… with perfect legs and double-D boobs.

"Bella, don't forget to watch for players," Newton says in my ear during one of the breaks. Checking my watch, I see that it's about thirty minutes until the head coach and players are scheduled to be on. "Refer to my list. I want to know when the VIPs arrive."

Nodding – so he'll know I heard him and shut the fuck up – I turn to look at Emmett as I widen my eyes, suck my cheeks in and bite down hard. Emmett is trying not to laugh.

"How did I get appointed chief spotter?" I grouse, leaning over to speak to Emmett. All of our mics are dead during the breaks, so Newton can't hear me. "We all know these guys."

"Yeah, but Riley and I are distracted by them," he answers lowly, jerking his head toward the dancing girls. There's a redhead who keeps looking at Emmett with a wide, flirty smile.

"You're such a boy," I say disdainfully, but I can't help chuckling when he winks at me, flashing his deep dimples.

During the next couple of segments, I scan the players who are starting to congregate on the opposite side of the stage, and check off the faces I recognize from Newton's list. I leave the stage for the final segment, letting Riley and Emmett talk to the pep band alone. I'm not even sure why we're interviewing them. While they call the Seagals up and have them introduce themselves, I huddle with Newton to go over the player list. He's wearing too much cologne, which makes me sneeze repeatedly.

"So, Whitlock isn't here? Or Cullen?" Newton barks, looking at me for confirmation.

"I haven't seen them," I answer, glaring at him. "Don't yell at me. It's not my fault if the VIP jerks don't show up."

"Well, if they _do_ show up, it would be nice if you could try not to discuss their asses on the air," he sneers, smirking smugly.

"So, it's okay to talk about their asses if they're not here?" I ask with faux excitement. "Yay!" I clap my hands together quickly several times. I knew I wouldn't be able to control my mouth forever.

"Be careful, Bella," he warns angrily. "You don't want me as an enemy."

"Or as a friend," I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Newton, Emmett is going to throw to break. You want me to play us out since the band isn't ready?" Seth asks from behind me.

"Yeah, play us out," he orders gruffly, stalking away. "I'm getting a beer. I'll be back."

Whirling around to face Seth, I start laughing.

"Shit, Bella. I was scared to interrupt," Seth admits, glancing at me as soon as he starts the music. "His face was so red."

"I'm glad you did, Seth," I say, reaching to grasp his forearm. "I know better than to say stuff like that to him. You probably saved me from getting fired. I'll buy you and the crew a beer when we're done, okay?"

"Sure."

We both turn our heads when someone shouts my name from across the stage. It's Whitlock. Smiling, I wave at him, then turn to tell Seth to mark his name from the list.

"I saw Cullen, too."

"What?" I breathe, looking back toward the players.

And sure enough, there he is, moving to stand next to Whitlock. Inhaling a shaky breath, I try to focus on what Seth is saying, but his voice sounds far away… muffled by the sound of my thundering heartbeat.

God, Cullen looks good. And he's looking at me. I don't know how long I stand there, taking him in, before something that Seth says breaks through the spell.

"Huh?" I ask, ripping my eyes away from Cullen and pivoting to face Seth.

"Newton's coming. Get back on stage before you insult him again," he whispers. I mumble a thank you, and then climb the steps, making my way back to my stool just as the head coach of the Seahawks, Coach Erickson, is getting settled for his interview.

Before I sit down between Emmett and Riley, I shake hands with the Coach, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"Hi, Bella," he says, smiling at me. "I tried to drag your dad down here with me, but he said he's not allowed at your remotes."

Laughing, I nod. "That's kind of true," I admit. "He came to my first-ever remote, and he whistled and yelled my name so many times that I almost died from embarrassment. At the time, I banned him for life, but I'd lift it now if he asked. I think he's matured."

While we're still laughing, Newton's voice booms in my ear. "Bella, sit the hell down. We're back on in twenty seconds."

Suppressing the urge to turn and flip him off, I squeeze Coach's hand, and then pull away. As I boost myself onto my seat, I glance toward Newton, glaring at him and hoping he reads the implied _fuck you_ in my eyes.

Our interview with the coach runs long, so we have to rush through all the players in order to get off the air on time. To my chagrin, Newton is actually good at this part of producing – he has everything timed out perfectly. We talk to the defensive line, corners and safeties. Then the offensive line, a running back, and two wide receivers. Whitlock is next to last, leaving the new quarterback as our final guest.

As Cullen walks on stage, the crowd cheers noisily. He's a little flushed, making me wonder if he's uncomfortable with all the attention. Emmett speaks first, rattling off some stats from the preseason game as Cullen picks up the extra microphone and sits down. For the next couple of minutes, he answers everything Emmett and Riley ask. Determined to be level-headed tonight, I stay quiet and watch… listen.

While Riley is talking, I turn to my right to look at him, also scanning the crowd. Several of the Seagals are standing front and center, blatantly staring at Cullen. Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention – and gaze – back to Cullen just as he begins speaking. He's looking at me, but then quickly slides his eyes toward the Seagals and back. When our eyes meet again, he briefly lifts one eyebrow just enough for me to know that he realizes why I rolled my eyes. Unable to stop the grin that curls my lips, I shrug my shoulders almost imperceptibly, and he smiles crookedly at me in return.

"Bella, are you with us? You haven't said a thing," Newton says sharply.

Bristling, I grit my teeth, letting my mouth settle into a grim line. As soon as Cullen is finished, I interject. "Getting away from football for a minute, what's your favorite thing so far about Seattle?"

"I'm not sure I can narrow it down to one," he answers, his gaze still fixed on mine, though neither of us is smiling any longer. "I'll have to give two: The food… and the people."

The crowd erupts in applause at his answer, and he turns to smile at them. Shaking my head slightly, I struggle with my feelings – my irritation at Newton and my attraction to Cullen. And I know my best course of action at the moment is to steer clear of both of them.

Emmett takes over again, thanking all the players for coming, and then signing us off the air. As the players all file onto the stage to wave to the crowd, Riley and I stand and move to the side. The pep band plays us off the air as I head down the stairs, yanking my earpiece out.

"Trade you," Seth offers, holding a bottle of beer toward me.

"Thanks, Seth," I say quietly, trying to smile at him. Lifting the bottle to my lips, I take two long pulls before lowering it, and then turn to Riley. "Want to go inside?"

"In a minute," he replies distractedly, looking at something on the stage.

Looking over my shoulder, I'm surprised to see that none of the players have left yet. Usually they head inside to the VIP area as soon as these rallies are over. But they're staying in place while Emmett thanks the crowd for coming. Then I get another surprise.

"Bella! Come back up here," he says. My stomach drops. "We have a little treat for Bella. Her birthday is Sunday."

"I'm killing both of you jackwagons," I mutter to Riley, grabbing his arm and dragging him up the stairs with me. "You're coming, too."

Once we reach Emmett, the pep band begins to play _Happy Birthday_. From the other side of the stage, two Seagals approach, carrying a cake lit with a lot more than 26 candles. Behind me, all the players are singing along with the crowd. I fake smile widely, trying to be a good sport, but I'm embarrassed. As soon as the song is over, I blow out all the candles – in one breath, thank you – and then stick my finger into the icing and take a bite. Smiling, I hold up my beer to toast the crowd as I say thank you into Emmett's microphone.

Less than two minutes later, I sit between Emmett and Riley at the bar, sullenly picking the paper label from my beer.

"Come on, Swan. Lighten up," Emmett says.

"You guys ambushed me," I whine. "Buy me shots."

When the bartender sets two fruity shots in front of me, I throw them both back immediately, not realizing I have an audience until Whitlock speaks from behind me.

"Happy birthday, Bella," he says in his unmistakable, slow drawl.

Raising the back of my hand to my mouth, I spin my stool around to face him.

Oh, shit. Cullen's with him.

"Thanks," I answer, letting my eyes land on Cullen for a second, but then pulling them back to meet Whitlock's gaze. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks. We're heading upstairs to the VIP lounge. You guys want to come up with us?" Whitlock asks.

"Thanks, but we'll stay down here amongst the common folk," I tease, smirking at him.

"Why won't you come up, Bella? You used to like me," Whitlock says sadly, holding a hand over his heart, but his eyes are shining mischievously.

"I promised to buy drinks for our crew," I explain with a laugh. "I'll sit with you VIP jerks next time."

"Deal. But come on up if you change your mind. It would be nice to catch up with you," he replies, leaning down to kiss my cheek.

As they walk away, I swivel my stool to face forward and Emmett leans over to bump my shoulder with his. "Someone was staring at you again."

"Why? Do I have something in my teeth? Frosting on my face?" I quip, wishing that I wasn't a little thrilled by Cullen's attention. "You can go upstairs if you want. That redheaded cheerleader has been giving you the eye all evening. I'm sure she's up there, too."

"Nah. I'd rather hang with you and the guys," he answers, shrugging. "She's probably a ho."

Laughing, I tap my bottle to his and Riley's. As we finish our beers and order another round, we watch the Mariners game on the television above the bar, naming several things we want to talk about Monday. All the while, no matter how hard I try to push them aside, thoughts of Cullen keep darting through my head.

Is he still here? Is he upstairs talking to all those girls who were ogling him earlier? If I was up there, would he talk to me? Would I even want him to?

"Where's the crew?" I wonder. "They should be done by now." Intending to search for them, I twist around, but instead of looking at the door, my eyes slide upward to the VIP balcony. Even among the group of players, Cullen's so tall that he's easy to find, standing in a larger group that includes a few offensive linemen and several scantily-clad women. Figures.

My stomach constricts painfully, but I force myself to smile as I drop my eyes and see Seth approaching, followed by Paul, Jared and Ryan. Newton is bringing up the rear. I say hi to all the guys – except Newton, whom I'm not speaking to – and spin around to tell the bartender that the next round is on me. I really don't want to buy Newton's drink, but I'm unsure how to communicate that without getting myself in deeper trouble with him. I don't care, of course, but since Charlotte and Kate put so much faith in me, I don't want to deliberately make things worse… not tonight, anyway.

When I finish my beer, I'm ready to go home. I don't want to sit here any longer trying not to look upstairs. Hopping off the barstool, I hug everyone except Newton goodbye and walk outside, successfully keeping my eyes away from the beautiful quarterback with the bright green eyes and great ass.

I walk leisurely, in no rush to get home to my lonely apartment. I never really allowed myself to speculate about what might happen tonight, but I guess I never considered that Cullen and I wouldn't speak at all except during the interview. And I didn't imagine that the fact that we didn't would leave me both relieved and pissed off. Why does he bring out such warring emotions in me?

I've walked about a block and a half when a big, gray SUV pulls to the curb and stops just ahead of me. The passenger window lowers and I hear someone call my name from inside. Well, not someone. Cullen. Cullen calls my name.

Perfect.

"Hey," I reply. Briefly, I turn to look at him and wave, but I keep walking forward until he calls out again. "What?"

"Can I talk to you?" he asks.

"I don't know, _can_ you?" I retort, using my dad's favorite proper-grammar-inducing line from my childhood. He laughs as he rolls up the window and turns off the car, then gets out to meet me on the sidewalk.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks, smiling down at me.

"No, thanks. I'll walk," I answer. "It's too nice outside to ride in a big, smog-making, ozone-destroying truck anyway."

"Then _may_ I walk you home?" he asks.

I chuckle even though I try not to. "Suit yourself," I reply with a one-shouldered shrug as I start walking again, more quickly this time. He jogs a few steps to catch up with me, and I hear his horn honk twice as he locks the SUV.

"Will my car be okay here?"

"Don't know. Did you park in a marked parking space or do you VIP jerks just park wherever the hell you want?" I ask. Wow. That sounded really snotty.

"Have I done something to offend you, Bella?" With a heavy sigh, I stop walking and turn to face him.

"No." I shake my head slowly, forcing myself to look into his piercing eyes. When I see the frown on his face, a dull ache throbs through my chest. "That was uncalled for. I'm sorry. I just –."

Dipping my head, I lower my eyes and stop talking before I say anything I'll regret later….like I _just _can't let myself get pulled into something I think will end in disaster for me. I _just_ have to be a bitch so you'll stay away. I _just _want to kiss you until I can't think straight.

"You just what?" he asks softly, putting his hand under my chin to tilt my head up. The gentle pressure of his fingers causes a quick flash of heat to course through me. Shit, Cullen. Why can't you _just_ be an asshole?

"I don't know. Why are you walking me home?" I ask, taking a step back so that his hand falls away. I can't continue thinking logically while my skin is tingling from his touch.

"I don't think you should be walking alone this time of night," he replies.

"It's not even eight o'clock yet. I live down here. I walk around all the time," I argue.

"I want to talk to you, get to know you," he says. He looks into my eyes as he steps forward, closing the distance between us again.

"Why? I'm just an average girl," I declare, starting to panic at the thought of spending more time alone with Cullen. "Divorced parents. Raised by my dad. Solid B student all through school. Sports fanatic who's lucky enough to have a job I love. That's it."

He raises one side of his lips in a smile as he answers. "Thanks for the Wiki summary, Swan, but I prefer to figure things out for myself."

"Cullen, any sort of friendship between us will compromise my journalistic integrity," I protest, cringing as I hear how high-pitched my panicked voice has become. Realizing how close to crazy my screechy statement sounds, I rein it in, hiding once again behind my number one defense mechanism - humor. "And you've got your quarterback image to think of, too. I don't really look like an NFL flavor of the week. Tall, blonde, leggy… that's what you're supposed to go for."

"What if I like not-tall, brunette, leggy?" he asks, smiling crookedly.

"I'm barely five-foot-six," I answer. "I'm not leggy."

"You're definitely leggy," he nods.

"You've been checking out my legs?" Pursing my lips, I tilt my head to the side and raise my eyebrows.

"You talked about my _ass _on the radio," he reminds me.

My eyes dart away, and then back to his as I struggle not to smile. Giving up, I laugh and shrug. "Touché."

"Have dinner with me."

"I can't."

"Why not? There are fifty restaurants on this street," he exaggerates. "Have dinner with me before you judge me and tell me who I should date."

"It's much more fun to judge you without really knowing you," I quip, chuckling softly when he laughs. "But I really don't want to be seen out with you, Cullen. It'll be in the newspaper or on someone's Facebook."

"So pick a place that's dark. Let's go to a dive, or to somewhere there won't be sports fans who will spot me. Then if I determine you really are average, no one will know we even dined together. You can escape anytime you want if you decide I'm a VIP jerk. Jesus, Bella, give me a shot here."

His impassioned plea crushes what's left of my already-crumbling resolve. Sighing, I roll my eyes.

"Okay. Let's go there," I say, pointing to Nara, a sushi restaurant across the street. "It's dimly-lit and the food is delicious. Do you have a hat or a fake moustache you can wear?" Chuckling, he shakes his head no. "Oh, well. It would be difficult for you to really be incognito anyway with that face. If my name ends up on some idiot's blog though, I will hurt you."

"Okay, Bella," he replies, smiling down at me.

"And I've had two shots and three beers, so I can't be responsible for everything I say. Don't try to put any moves on me though. I grew up around some of the meanest defensive backs around and they treated me like a little sister. They taught me how to fight off handsy boys," I say, while internally wondering if I would fight him off if he got handsy. Probably not.

"Okay, Bella," he says again.

"And don't talk to me patronizingly," I demand.

He nods. "Is that it? Can we go in now?"

"I don't know… _can_ we?" I ask, unable to stop the grin that spreads across my face as he laughs out loud.

* * *

Once we're inside, I walk up to the hostess desk, glad that Saika is working tonight. Her parents own the restaurant and I come in enough that most of the family knows me, but I like Saika the best.

"Hi, Bella," she greets. It doesn't escape me that she's staring at Cullen even though she's talking to me. "Two for dinner?"

"Yes. Somewhere private please."

She leads us to a secluded table in the far back corner, returning within a minute with a Sapporo for each of us. I pick mine up immediately, taking a quick sip. We're quiet until we've ordered, but then there's nothing to do except face him.

He studies my face intently for several seconds before he speaks. "Why don't you like me, Bella?"

I frown as I answer. "I never said I didn't like you," I assert, shaking my head minutely. "I just said this isn't a good idea….for either one of us."

"Because of our jobs? Your dad? Those are flimsy excuses." he argues.

"They're valid _reasons_," I insist. But I don't want to discuss my reasoning – especially my biggest reason, which I have not and will not verbalize: I'm scared to freaking death of him… of my physical reaction to him… of the way I already feel about him… of the way I think he'll break my heart if I let him. "Besides, you've got a big-time, brand-new job anyway. Shouldn't you be concentrating on that? Removing distractions from your life instead of adding them?"

"I've been concentrating heavily on my new job. Does that mean that I should ignore my feelings when I meet someone I really like?" He leans across the table to speak quietly, urgently to me.

"I don't know," I whisper, incapable of pulling my gaze away from his. I swallow loudly as we continue staring at each other for several seconds until he finally slumps back in his chair.

"Well, we've already ordered, so why don't we get to know each other a little? When we're done, if you don't want me to bother you again, I won't. Scout's honor," he says, holding up three fingers…three long fingers, which are attached to giant hands. "Bella?"

"Um, yeah… okay. You first," I say. "You grew up in Chicago, right?"

"Yes."

"Parents?"

"Two," he jokes, grinning. I can't help chuckling lightly. "Doctors. Dad is a cardiologist. My mom is an oncologist."

"Wow," I reply, genuinely impressed. "Brothers and sisters?"

"Two sisters. One normal person and one bitch I can't stand. The bitch is just like my mother, which should give you some insight into that relationship as well," he shares, pausing to take a drink of his beer.

"I'm sorry," I offer honestly.

"It's all right. She's been that way as long as I can remember," he shrugs. "Ask something else."

"I know you went to Northwestern, but what was your major?"

"Communications."

"And you were drafted in the fourth round three years ago."

"Yes," he nods.

"Lots of girlfriends?"

"Nope. I dated the same girl from senior year of high school until halfway through senior year of college," he says. "It didn't work out, but we're still friends. She's best friends with my sister. The normal one."

"Since then?"

"I've dated, but nothing serious since her."

"Why?"

"This is starting to feel like an interview," he muses. "Is it possible for us to have a regular conversation?"

"Sorry. I wasn't aware I was doing it wrong," I mutter, rolling my eyes. Defense mechanism number two – sarcasm mixed with obstinance – is kicking in.

He sighs, making me a little happy that I've succeeded in annoying him. But, shockingly, I'm also upset about it. My shield must be slipping.

Our server appears with our entrees, and as we begin eating, Cullen turns the tables, quizzing me. His questions are leading though, encouraging me to talk freely about my life. And I do. I tell a few funny stories about the difficulties of being a girl growing up with my dad – and fifty-three NFL players each year. I talk about my parents and step-parents, and he points out how lucky I am to have four people who are supportive of me.

"I agree, Cullen."

"Do you always call people by their last names?" he frowns.

"Most guys, yeah," I confirm, "except for Emmett, Riley and Seth. There's no hidden meaning to that though. Emmett hates to be called McCarty or Mac, Riley's first name sounds like a last name and Seth's last name is too long."

He nods, presumably satisfied with that answer. "You haven't mentioned any boyfriends," he prods.

"Not much to tell. One serious boyfriend in high school and one in college. No one significant since then. Most guys I go out with discover that it's not as fun to date a female sports fan as they thought it would be. I'm too opinionated," I shrug. Then I continue with a smirk. "I'm thinking about hitting up a Trekkie convention or something next time I need a date."

"You like the jumpsuits?" he asks, perplexed.

"No," I scoff, chuckling. "I just want to be the one doing the dumping at the end of the night. Sci-fi is _not_ my thing."

"I thought maybe it was related to the thing you have for men in football pants," he teases.

"Jesus. I'm never gonna live that down," I mumble, but I'm amused. "I could kill Emmett for getting me to say that on the air."

When he smiles crookedly at me, I can't breathe. Suddenly, I'm all too aware that the defenses I felt slipping all through dinner are practically non-existent now. I like him. I really freaking like him. After only spending an hour with him, I've revealed things that I haven't shared with anyone else in years.

I pick up my beer and finish it, hoping the waitress arrives with our bill soon. I need to get the hell out of here.

"Is it true? Do you really draft two guys for that?"

"Yeah, until this year, but that's a long story. Please don't ask," I beg, reluctant to explain why I was so distracted during the fantasy draft last week. The waitress sets the bill on the table, and I grab it quickly, holding it close to my chest when he reaches for it. "My treat. Please."

"All right. I'll get it the next time. Sunday night?" he asks as I bend down to grab my clutch from the floor. I almost fall off my chair and have to grasp the table for support as I sit up again.

"Huh?"

"Sunday night. Will you have dinner with me Sunday night after the game?" he repeats. That snaps me out of my defenseless stupor. My heart beats frantically as I scramble to resurrect the walls I normally protect myself with.

"No, Cullen. This was it," I say, leaving enough cash on the table to cover the bill and the tip. I stand up and walk out, waving goodbye to Saika as I pass the hostess desk. I know he's behind me and I know I'm being rude, but I can't look into his eyes and say no again. I go out the restaurant door and start to head up the block.

"Christ, Swan. Will you slow down?" he calls when he hits the street just a few feet behind me.

Whirling around to face him, I force myself to smile widely. "I only live two more blocks up. I'll be fine."

"It's dark. I'm making sure you get home," he states flatly. "Then I'll leave you alone."

We fall into step side-by-side, but don't speak until we're at the door to my building.

"This is me."

"I'll walk you up," he replies tersely, holding the door open for me. We ride up the elevator in silence, and then I lead the way down the hall, holding my keys in one hand and my clutch in the other. At my door, I put the key in and unlock it, but don't open it before turning around to face him.

"So… thanks for walking me home, Cullen."

"You're welcome. Thanks for dinner," he responds. "Sorry I wrecked your night."

"You didn't," I contend, feeling something in my chest shatter when I see the rejection in his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I… I'm not usually rude like this."

"Good to know that I bring out the best in you," he remarks, chuckling, but not at all amused.

Since I know from experience that no one believes the "it's not you, it's me" speech, I don't try to make it… even though it's actually freaking true in this case.

"Good luck Sunday," I say instead, forcing myself to continue looking at him. "For what it's worth, I think you're going to be great. I'm shocked you haven't gotten this opportunity earlier in your career."

He nods, but I can see that this time, he's the one with his guard up. "See you around, Swan." He turns and takes two steps away from me.

"Cullen… Edward, wait," I plead, prompting him to turn around and look at me expectantly. Shit! My heart races uncontrollably, and I'm not even sure what I want to say. But I don't want him to go. "I… I just…"

"What, Bella?" he asks, clearly irritated.

"I just… I want to," I start, and then can't continue.

Before I can think about it – before I can talk myself out of it – I step toward him, letting my clutch fall to the floor. With one hand, I grab a handful of the Seahawks t-shirt covering his chest, wrapping my other arm around his neck to pull him down to me. As I press my lips to his, I'm not surprised that he doesn't immediately respond. I _am_ surprised, however, by the wave of desire that spreads through me from just one chaste, closed-mouth kiss with a guy who's barely puckering up in return.

Relaxing my lips, I start to step away, and then inhale sharply when I feel his arm come around my waist to pull me back. He cups the back of my head with his other hand, holding me still as he kisses me again. This time Edward is an active participant in the kiss. After a few more closed-mouth pecks, we both open our lips at the same time. Another spike of arousal flashes through me as he slides his tongue along mine.

Slowly learning each other, we move together, apart, together. He traces his tongue along my lower lip, and I do the same to his. When he pulls his head back slightly, I open my eyes to find his vivid eyes looking back at me.

"Crap. I was afraid it was gonna be like this," I whisper, smiling when I feel a low chuckle vibrate through his chest.

Curling his fingers around my waist, he pulls me impossibly closer, lowering his mouth to mine again. This time the kiss is not as slow, not as gentle. Our open lips meet over and over, crashing together as we breathe heavily into each other's mouths.

Although I don't want to, I twist my mouth away after a few minutes. We _are_ making out in the middle of a hallway, after all. Cullen lets me, slowly releasing me from his hold. As I step away, I unclench the fingers that are still gripping his shirt tightly.

"I wrinkled you," I mumble lamely, looking at his chest and trying to smooth out the material.

"It's okay," he answers quietly, smiling as I look up at him. He raises one hand, brushing the backs of his fingers along my cheek. "Have dinner with me Sunday."

"I still think this is a bad idea."

"Maybe it is. We'll figure it out, either way," he replies.

Reaching up, I grasp his hand and he squeezes my fingers as he lowers our joined hands to hang between us.

Nodding, I finally answer. "I want to have dinner with you – as long as we keep it quiet and private. And I promise to leave my inner bitch at home."

Laughing, he lets go of my hand to pull his phone from his pocket. He has me program my number, and I ask him if he wants me to meet him somewhere Sunday.

"Well, I'll probably be pretty tired. Is it okay with you if we eat at my place and order in?" he asks. When he sees my raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "You said quiet and private. It is. And I promise to keep my hands to myself."

Dammit. I'm not sure that's what I want anymore. But this isn't the time to decide.

"All right," I agree. "Text me directions?"

"Yeah." He steps forward, pulling me into a hug. As I wrap my arms around his solid shoulders, I let my eyes slide closed and hang on tightly. Rearing back, he kisses me softly twice. "I'll see you Sunday."

When I back away, he bends down to get my purse for me, smiling as he hands it to me. Suddenly self-conscious, I turn and open my door, yanking the keys from the lock. Once I step inside, I pivot so I can see him once more as I close the door.

"Goodnight, Edward," I say, smiling.

"Night," he answers.

After locking the deadbolt, I turn around and lean against the door… thinking of the path we've taken to get this far. The first time he asked me out, I was flippant. The second, I was evasive. I was downright condescending the third. Tonight I relented, but acted like a total bitch most of the evening. And still he wants to see me again.

What the hell is wrong with him?

I don't know the answer to that, but I do know what's wrong with me. I'm standing in the midst of rising flood waters, about to let myself be swept away. And I think I like it.

I'm so screwed.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Please review! :) Next update will be September 30.  
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	5. Blown Coverage

**A/N: It's late, but still Sunday where I live. :)  
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**I so appreciate those who review/follow/favorite. Thanks so much!  
**

**This chapter was an oddity for a lot of reasons I won't bore you with. I'm so lucky to have such great friends: Windgirl810 is the best beta ever and has helped me conceptually with this story for over a year. Littlecat358 helped me so much with this chapter - content/wording/characterization. Michelle0526 preread and typo-corrected. Tennesseelamb flits around making me laugh. Especially last night. :)  
**

**Okay, that's it. Thanks for reading!  
**

* * *

Saturday morning, I wake up to the most fantastic sound. Opening my eyes, I lift my head to look at the fancy, bean-grinding, gourmet-java-brewing beauty still sitting on my nightstand… and I smile.

"I love you," I mutter sleepily, not at all concerned for my sanity at uttering those three little words to an inanimate object.

Since it's the weekend, I set the timer for seven, allowing myself to sleep in. Well, if you consider getting up at seven sleeping in. I don't, but when I was working overnights at the station several years ago, I learned not to alter my sleep schedule too much on the weekends. It only makes Monday morning that much more painful. So, it's early to rise… and a long nap on the couch later.

Once the coffee's ready and I've filled my stainless steel mug, I prop my pillows against the headboard and lean back against them, flipping the television on to watch ESPN. I try to pay attention as the College GameDay hosts preview today's games, but as soon as someone mentions the Big Ten, my brain veers off on its own detour.

The Big Ten. Northwestern is in the Big Ten. Cullen played at Northwestern.

Cullen.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head at myself. What am I doing? Setting myself up for disaster, that's what I'm doing. I never considered myself stupid before, but maybe I am. Agreeing to see Cullen – alone – is even more idiotic than that kissing stunt I pulled last night.

Lifting my mug to my mouth, I swallow several sips of the almost-scalding coffee, and then press the warm steel against my lips, smiling. Kissing Cullen might have been the dumbest thing I ever did that felt that good. As my heart speeds up, I picture his face behind my closed eyelids. My fingers curl more tightly around my mug as I remember gripping his shirt, sliding my hand along his strong, broad shoulders. Rolling my lips together, I recall the way he pulled me close, holding me in place as we kissed… and kissed… and kissed.

I so totally want to do that again. And I guess, yeah, that means I'm pretty stupid.

It would be much wiser for me to stay the hell away from him. Whatever happens from here, it is sure to complicate both my private and professional lives. Personally, I already like him more than is reasonable since I don't know him very well. What if he's like so many players I've been around in the past who only enjoy the challenge of the chase? I'm not naïve about the way these things usually turn out for the woman: She gets left in the dust while the player moves on to someone else.

Professionally, this relationship is a mistake of potentially catastrophic proportion. It's Journalism 101: Dating anyone you cover – players, coaches, owners, refs – is a no-no. A huge no-no. _Huge, huge no-no_.

"I love my job. I love my job. I love my job," I whisper, eyes clenched tightly shut, as if repeating it will magically make me forget the nice man with the great ass.

It doesn't work.

Well, maybe he'll turn into a VIP jerk and be such a jackwagon tomorrow night that I'll swear I'm never going to see him again. But I'll probably still kiss him first.

When I hear my phone ping in the other room, my eyes pop open. Who would be texting me at a little after seven on a Saturday morning? With an irritated sigh, I kick the covers off and get up, carrying my coffee with me to the kitchen. I pick the phone up from the counter, frowning when I don't recognize the incoming number.

***Hey. Are you awake?**

A generic text from an unknown number. I'm gonna be so pissed if I just got my ass out of bed to read a text from someone I don't even…

Wait. Area code 602 is Arizona, but this isn't my mom or Phil. My stomach flutters nervously as I think of someone else who lived in Phoenix until very recently. Setting my mug down, I type a reply.

***Hey. Yes. Who is this?**

Instead of an answering text, my phone rings in my hand. Shit! I haven't even spoken at full volume yet this morning and I've had next-to-no caffeine. I might sound like a bullfrog. I clear my throat anxiously before I slide my finger across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hi," he answers, his voice low and still a little rough from sleep. "What are you doing up so early?"

"I had to get up to see who was texting me," I reply, smirking. Taking my mug from the counter, I wander to the living room and sink down onto my sofa. I dismiss his hasty apology, swearing that I was already awake. "What did you want?"

"I was just going to send you directions to my place," he explains. "I didn't expect you to be up. Then when you answered, I don't know. I wanted to say hi."

"Hi." My voice is soft and I'm smiling widely.

"Hi." He chuckles twice. "So, are you sitting around making up reasons to call off our dinner?"

"I don't have to make them up. There are plenty of built-in grounds for cancellation here," I argue. "But… no."

"Good," he pronounces. "I'll text you the address, and then I'll see you tomorrow. You're coming to the game?"

"Yeah. I'll be up in the press box. Working."

"I'll be down on the field. Working," he counters. We both laugh. "I'd better go. I have to be in a team meeting in less than an hour."

"Okay. Good luck tomorrow, Cullen."

"Thanks, Swan," he says. "Bye."

"Bye."

Soon after we disconnect, he sends the text with his address and precise directions from CenturyLink Field. Then he sends another saying he's looking forward to dinner. I type a concise, but honest, response.

***Me, too.**

Sighing, I lean forward to set my phone on the coffee table, and then curl into the corner of the couch with my coffee. How can my feelings be so complex for someone I barely knew existed two weeks ago? My stomach churns with fear, and yet flutters euphorically. I don't know what to do… I don't think there's much I _can_ do to slow down my runaway emotions. The only way to protect myself is to go into this with open eyes and a guarded heart. So, that's what I vow to do.

* * *

Sunday when I arrive in the press box, Riley and Emmett are already inside, seated in the front row.

"Want some nachos?" Emmett asks as I sit down in the seat between them. His mouth is full, so I just saw enough partially-chewed food to kill what little appetite I had. Just like when I watched the last preseason game, I'm filled with nervous anticipation.

"No, thanks," I dismiss, making a disgusted face. I open my messenger bag and lift my laptop out, setting it up on the desk in front of me. Out of habit, I also set out a notepad, two pens, a highlighter and a pack of gum. As I organize everything the way I like it, the guys continue the conversation they were having about what they did last night. Listening, I begin to put the pieces together.

"The redheaded Seagal? You went out with her?" I ask, turning to look at Emmett. "You went straight up to the VIP lounge when I left Friday night, didn't you?"

"Sorta," he grins. "What? I'm a young, single man."

"Gross," I declare.

"What about you? You cut out early Friday," Riley asserts. "Did you do anything fun?"

"Uh, walked home," I say, skipping over the quarterback, the dinner… the kissing. "But I went out last night with Jess and some of her friends."

That diverts the conversation. I figured it would because Emmett has met Jessica before and it was lust at first sight for him. After disappointing him with the news that she still has a boyfriend, I focus on the field far below, reaching to my right to pick up Riley's binoculars. The teams are warming up; I find number seven quickly, and then look through the binoculars to get a closer view. For a few minutes, I watch him stretch and throw warm-up passes before heading back to the locker room.

When the game starts thirty minutes later, the Seahawks defense takes the field first. They're fired up, playing in front of almost 70,000 screaming fans.

"The Rams aren't going to be able to move the ball at all if that O-line doesn't toughen up," Riley remarks. While they talk strategy, I pick up the binoculars again and zoom in on Cullen. He's standing on the sideline, helmet off, talking to the quarterback coach.

"Looking for your dad?" Emmett asks.

"Huh?" I turn to look at him.

"Your dad. Is that who you're looking for with the specs?" he repeats. "You keep pointing them at the sidelines. If you're trying to find your dad, he's down on this end." Emmett points at the group of coaches and trainers, and I follow his finger with my eyes. Immediately, I recognize my dad by his stance.

"Oh, yeah. There he is. Thanks," I nod. No more binoculars for me. I'm being way too obvious.

The Seahawks defense holds and after the punt, I watch Cullen run onto the field. My heart pounds as the offense breaks the huddle and lines up.

"Here we go," Emmett mutters. "Let's hope the kid can handle the pressure."

The first play is a flat route; a short pass to the running back, Brady Fuller. Brady catches the ball and turns, running up the field fifteen yards before being tackled. Outside the press box windows, the crowd cheers loudly. Underneath the desk, my fists are clenched triumphantly in my lap. There's very rarely any cheering or open rooting for either team in the press box. Journalism 101 again. It's unprofessional.

As the offense moves down the field, my nerves settle a little. Although the Rams defense finally puts a stop to the progress, the Seahawks kick a field goal and have the lead. During the television time out before the kickoff, I slump back in my chair, relieved for Cullen.

"Why do you have clothes in your laptop bag?" Emmett asks. Snapping my head to my left, I see him looking down at the bag I carelessly left open on the floor beside me. "Swan, did you spend the night somewhere last night?" His tone is playful and he jabs me twice with his elbow.

"No, you nosy jackwagon. I didn't," I reply, swiveling my chair enough to grab the bag with my foot and shove it under the desk. "I'm going to get a water. You guys want anything?"

Although it's not unheard of to have a beer or two during the game, neither of them asks for one. I return several minutes later with two waters and a soda for Emmett. For the rest of the half, I type detailed notes about plays, the different defensive schemes the Rams are using against Cullen and which offensive plays are working best for the Seahawks. They're moving the ball pretty well, but fail to score a touchdown and go off the field at halftime trailing seven to six.

My anxiety begins to spike again during the idle time, brought on by the knowledge that Cullen really wants to get his first NFL win and the realization that when this game is over, I'm going to be alone with him in his apartment. Trying to preoccupy myself, I pick up the piece of paper in front of Emmett. While I read through the first half stats he wrote down, I absently unwrap a piece of gum, chew it until the initial burst of flavor is gone, and then swallow it. I repeat this process four times before I realize what I'm doing… which is giving myself away.

"Swan, that's one of your most annoying nervous habits," Riley comments, getting my attention. He points to the growing wad of wrappers on the desk between us. "What are you freaked out about?"

"You know, that gum stays in your stomach for seven years," Emmett offers helpfully.

"Emmett, you are an adult, at least theoretically," I say, turning my head his way. "You understand how the human body works. You really think that's true?"

"My mom said it was true," he defends defiantly.

"It's not true, Emmett," Riley agrees. "I think it's really seven weeks."

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. "You two are ridiculous."

"Hang on," Emmett begins, capturing my attention again. He's frowning. Uh oh. "You're acting nervous. You have clothes in your bag, and if I'm not mistaken, it's that blue dress you wore the other day which Seth told you looked cool and hot at the same time." He pauses as he peeks under the desk. "Instead of flip flops, you're wearing those boots guys always compliment you on. You have a date." Proud of his pronouncement, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I do not have a date," I insist. It's a dinner. No one used the word date.

"Oh, shit! Emmett, it's her birthday," Riley reminds him. "Happy birthday, Bella."

Emmett apologizes for not remembering what today is. When he and Riley assume that I'm having a celebratory dinner with my dad and Sue, I don't correct them. I never confirm it either though.

The second half of the game is ruled by both defenses, with neither offense able to move the ball up the field well. The Rams, however, score a field goal, increasing their lead. When the Seahawks get the ball with less than five minutes left in the game, I tap my fingernails on the desk.

"Dinner will be a lot more pleasant if they can squeak out a win, huh, Swan?" Riley laughs, patting my shoulder. I smile and nod, but then turn my attention back to the field.

"Blitz," I mutter, watching the defense crowd the line of scrimmage. As soon as the ball is snapped, Cullen drops back three steps and pitches the ball to Fuller. The fans are yelling, so I guess Fuller gains some ground, but I'm watching Cullen get slammed to the ground by a defensive back who broke through the line.

"Oh, that should be a flag. That D-back took more than two steps after the ball was released," Emmett says quietly, then nods when one of the refs tosses the yellow marker onto the field. As I watch Cullen stand up again, I slowly let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

The referee's microphone comes on as he makes the call. "Personal foul. Roughing the passer. Defense, number seventy-one. Fifteen yards from the end of the run. First down."

Fans stay on their feet as the drive continues, cheering wildly when it's finally first and goal. On first down, Fuller gets the ball again, but is stopped in the backfield for a loss of two yards. Cullen throws on second down, but the pass is short, missing the receiver. Two downs left. A field goal won't be enough to win. It's touchdown or bust.

Leaning forward, I move my hands to my lap under the desk. Following the same silly superstition I did when I was a kid and rooting for the team because of my dad, I cross all my fingers and even hook my thumbs together. Then hold my breath again.

As Cullen drops back, I try to take in the whole play. The offensive line is holding firm, buying him time, and I suddenly see that Whitlock is wide-open in the corner of the endzone. Cullen's arm cocks back, and then he fires the ball in a perfect, accurate spiral. Whitlock snags the ball; the referee – joined by most of the crowd – signals touchdown, and the celebration begins.

Smiling, I uncross my fingers and noiselessly clap under the table. The point-after attempt sails through the uprights, and I let my gaze drift to the sidelines, seeking number seven. I spot him standing with a couple of the offensive linemen. He's taken his helmet off and is wearing a baseball cap as he drinks from a Gatorade cup. I can't see his face, but I bet he's smiling crookedly and watching the replay of the touchdown on the stadium's big screen.

The Seahawks just need one more defensive stop to win the game. And they get it, spurred on by the frenzied crowd. Keeping my eyes on Cullen, I watch him walk to the middle of the field as time expires, shaking hands with the opposing quarterback and several other players.

When the teams head to their locker rooms, I pack up my laptop and notebook. Riley leaves, but Emmett waits around for me.

"Want to sit in on the presser since we're here?" Emmett asks. "Or do you have to get going?"

"Let's go down there. I'm supposed to go find my dad anyway," I answer. Emmett and I make our way down into the tunnel, flashing our press passes at security.

"Bells!" I hear my dad call from behind me. I turn to see him walking quickly toward me. "Happy birthday!"

"Thanks," I answer, hugging him.

"Did you change your mind about dinner with Sue and me?" he asks hopefully as he lets me go.

"No, Dad. I have plans. Can I change in your office after the press con?"

"Sure. Just come on down when you're done. I'll be here late tonight since I've been dumped by my daughter," he chuckles.

"Can we do dinner some night this week instead?" I ask, feeling a little guilty… but not that much.

"Sure," he answers. "See you in a bit." He continues up the hall toward his office.

Meanwhile, Emmett clears his throat exaggeratedly beside me. "Care to explain this one, Swan?"

No, not really. But I have a feeling he'll just keep after me, so I turn to him and shrug sheepishly. "I have a little date thingy," I admit, feeling my face flush.

"Who's the lucky fella?"

"We are _so_ not discussing this further," I laugh as we begin walking again, headed to the room where press conferences are held. "Besides, you know me. I'm the queen of first dates who never call again."

"Well, it's your birthday. Maybe that will be good luck," he remarks as we enter the room and find seats.

"Maybe," I echo, attempting to sound indifferent. But inside, my heart thumps a little faster, a little harder, and I hope he's right. Crap.

The presser starts a few minutes later. Coach Erickson is first, answering questions for about fifteen minutes before turning it over to Cullen. I almost gasp when I see him walk into the room in a blue and white striped dress shirt and charcoal gray pants. He looks great in everything, it seems. Football pants. Jeans. Dress pants.

Okay, time to stop that particular train of thought. I shift around in my chair, crossing my legs as Cullen gives his attention to the reporter who's speaking. For the next several minutes, I watch him intently, noting the way he squints his left eye slightly when he's listening. His responses are deliberate and articulate, never sounding like preplanned, standard answers.

When a reporter seated in our row stands to ask a question, Cullen's eyes sweep past me – but then return. As our eyes meet, the muscles at the sides of his jaw twitch and his lips curl upward slightly, but he quickly turns his attention back to the reporter, asking him to repeat the question. Smirking, I note that it's the only time during the press con that he seems to lose his train of thought.

When it's over, I tell Emmett goodbye and go to my dad's office. He steps out so I can change into the just-above-knee-length dress I brought – the one Seth said looked cool and hot at the same time, just like Emmett guessed. I pull my Frye engineer boots back on, and then let my dad in as I'm fixing my hair and makeup.

"Bells, you get prettier every year," he remarks.

"That's sweet, Dad, but I think you're biased," I remark. My phone vibrates and I pick it up quickly to read the new text. It's from Cullen.

***You still here?**

***Yes, Chief's office.**

***Can you meet me at my building in 20?**

***Sounds good.**

***I'll meet you in the lobby.**

***Okay**

"Well, that's certainly a big smile, young lady," my dad observes, looking at me from behind his desk. "That text from a young man?"

I roll my eyes. "Dad, you make me sound like I'm still in high school. I'm just going to have dinner with friends. It's no big deal. Quit prying," I scold. I walk around his desk to kiss him goodbye, then make my way out to the press parking lot.

I follow the directions Edward sent me, driving across the West Seattle Bridge and finding his building pretty easily. After parking on the street about half a block past it, I turn off my truck and take several deep breaths.

"This is stupid. I can be brave. It's just a date," I mumble. With one last check of my reflection in the rearview mirror, I get out and walk toward his building. As I approach, I can see him standing just inside the double doors. Smiling crookedly, he steps outside to greet me.

"Happy birthday, Bella," he says quietly when I get to him.

"Thanks, Edward. Good game today," I reply, smiling back.

"My performance was mediocre, but the team did well," he allows. "You look great. Now I feel underdressed."

He changed from his dress clothes to jeans and a black t-shirt with the name of some beer I've never heard of emblazoned across the front. He looks hot. I think no matter what he wears, he looks hot. I think if he was wearing nothing… I think I'd better stop thinking like that.

He holds the door open and we walk inside toward the elevators.

"Good evening, miss," the guard says from his seat at the security desk. As I answer, I feel Edward's hand press lightly against my lower back, nudging me forward as the doors open on the far elevator.

"See you later, Chris," Edward calls once we're inside. He inserts a key to light up the "PH" button where the number ten should be on the numbered panel.

"Top-floor penthouse, huh?" I ask.

He shrugs, reddening slightly. "I didn't pick it. Someone at the Seahawks found it for me since I only had one day to move here," he replies. "I really like it though. It's private, but still feels like part of the city. And the view is great."

When the elevator stops on the top floor, we exit into a marble hallway. The double doors leading into the penthouse are propped open, and Edward tells me he rarely shuts them. Only two other people have keys to this floor – the security guard and the building caretaker.

The interior of the apartment is contemporary, with clean lines and dark, masculine wood. Music, something old I don't readily recognize, surrounds us, and even though I'm actively looking, I can't find the hidden speakers. He shows me around the apartment – skipping his bedroom. We finish in the living room, and I walk past the baby grand piano toward the wall of windows overlooking the sound.

"I can see why you like it here, Edward. It's incredible," I marvel, hearing the wonder in my voice. I smile when I see a ferry crossing the water below.

"Thanks," he says, coming to stand next to me. "I hate to ask, Bella, but are you hungry?"

Immediately, I realize that since it's a game day, he probably hasn't eaten since early this morning. "Starving," I answer.

"I am, too. Uh, Mrs. Berty – she's the building caretaker's wife – made dinner. Chicken parm, I think."

"Already have the ladies cooking for you, huh?" I tease as we walk together into the kitchen.

"She brings me dinner twice a week," he laughs, using potholders to pull the dish from the warm oven. "I think she feels sorry for me since I'm new in town."

"And?" I lead, guessing there's more to the story.

"She also cleans for me once a week," he admits, looking at me from the corner of his eye. "But that's it, I promise." When he turns to smile at me, I want to kiss him again… and again.

Instead, I ask how I can help, and we spend the next few minutes carrying everything to the table. When we sit down, he pours each of us a glass of wine.

"To older women," he toasts, holding his glass toward me. Laughing out loud, I tap mine against it before taking a sip of the dark, red wine.

As we eat, we continue talking, both of us getting more comfortable. He's dangerously easy to confide in, and I end up telling him about the contract extension I was offered last week. He wants to know all about it, and seems sincerely pleased for me when I tell him I think it's a great deal. Besides Edward, the only other person I told was my lawyer when I asked him to look at it last Thursday.

He carries our plates to the sink, and returns with another, smaller plate. On top is a miniature cake with a lit candle. Immediately, I recognize that it's my favorite cake – from my favorite bakery.

"How did you…," I gasp, looking up at him as he sets it in front of me.

"Communications major, remember? I know how to ask the right questions of the right people," he grins. "And before you freak out, no one realized why I was asking."

"Did Mrs. Berty do this, too?" I ask. It doesn't really make a difference if she did… but I think it might make a difference if she didn't.

"No," he replies, sitting down again. "This one was all me. I stopped at the bakery after I left the stadium. Happy birthday. Make a wish."

Closing my eyes, I lean forward a little and blow out the candle. I don't really think of a wish… I only think of him. But when I open my eyes to see him watching me, smiling at me, I'm afraid those things might be synonymous.

After we each have several bites of what he agrees is the best carrot cake ever, he suggests we go up to the rooftop terrace. Impressed, I raise my eyebrows, and then laugh when he reddens again.

"It came with the penthouse," he shrugs. "But it's really cool up there."

Once we're upstairs, I have to agree. Edward's private terrace is spacious, covering half the rooftop, and the wall separating it from the part of the roof that other tenants can access is at least nine feet high. This part of the terrace faces west and northwest, and I notice the sun is rapidly sliding toward the Pacific.

"You want to sit up here for a while?"

"Sure," I answer, looking around at our options. On the right is a patio table that seats six, but we've already been sitting at a table for over an hour. There's a teak double lounger, too. No, that's a little too horizontal for tonight. Our other option is a seating area with an outdoor couch and four chairs. I point to it. "There?"

As we sit down on the couch, I twist sideways to face him, pulling my knees to the cushion and adjusting my skirt to cover them. He turns toward me, too, and we both rest our hands on the back of the couch, close but not touching. The same music that was playing in the apartment is turned on up here. I still don't recognize the female voice singing to us, although I feel like I should… like I've heard it before.

"Who is this?" I ask, pointing up.

"Ella Fitzgerald," he answers. "Do you like jazz?"

"I like all music. I don't listen to jazz much, but I remember my grandma playing some of these records when I was younger," I remark, smiling both at Edward and at the memory of my Grandma Swan.

He asks me about her, and I reminisce for several minutes about spending time at her house on the Oregon coast, sometimes staying there when my dad was away on extended scouting trips. His green eyes are warm and interested, and I know I should be worried about how much I like him, how easy it is to be here with him – but I'm not.

"So, you like jazz, huh?" I ask.

"My mom's dad was a jazz pianist. He played on some of Ella's records, including this one. I like the music, yeah, but I like listening to it even more because it's like he's here playing for me."

"He must have had a fascinating life." I smile, pleased when Edward launches into several stories about the musicians his granddad knew and the places he traveled. He also tells me that his granddad taught him to play the piano, but that he's not very good.

As he's talking, he moves his hand closer to mine on the back of the couch and plays idly with my fingers. The warmth that rapidly spreads through my body, the way my skin tingles all the way up my arm, is absurd given the fact that we're barely touching. I have to force myself to speak when he pauses.

"When did he pass away?" I ask, trying to hide the fact that I'm out of breath.

Edward laughs. "I made it sound like he's dead, didn't I? He's not. He lives in Chicago with my parents... drives my mom crazy, I think. He's still kicking, still playing. He's lost some of his agility, but he's still the best as far as I'm concerned," he says. "I'm named after him. Edward Masen."

"That's sweet," I say, lifting my fingers slightly so that they slide between his.

"Couldn't share a name with anyone better," he shrugs, shifting his gaze to our joined hands. "They – my grandparents – practically raised us. My sisters and I were all born while my parents were in med school."

"That must have been rough," I remark.

He looks at me again, his gaze hard and unyielding. "Don't worry about them. Having three kids at home was barely a speed bump for them on their respective career paths."

"I meant rough for you and your sisters," I explain quietly.

"Sorry," he mutters, and then takes a deep breath. "I didn't intend to spill all that on our first real date."

"If it will make you feel better, I'll tell you something inappropriately personal for first date chitchat," I offer. He nods, chuckling. "I didn't wear a bra until I was almost fourteen because it never occurred to my dad, whom I lived with, that I needed one. Well, I didn't really _need_ one then – still don't – but at that age, you just want to be like everyone else."

Pointedly, he quirks one eyebrow before dropping his gaze to my chest.

"Hey!" I laugh, leaning forward to cover his eyes with my free hand.

"You're the one who said it," he insists, laughing, too. "I'm just verifying your observation."

"Take my word for it."

"Okay, okay," he relents, reaching up to grab my wrist. He pulls my hand away from his eyes, and then wraps his fingers around my palm and sets our hands on his knee. Lowering my eyes, I study his hand, his strong forearm, and I involuntarily tighten my grip on both of his hands.

Lifting my head, I look out toward the horizon and see that the sun is gone, and the daylight is quickly receding. "We missed the sunset," I note. The lights along the terrace wall must be photosensitive because they come on, casting the terrace back into soft light.

"We'll catch the repeat performance another night," he says, drawing my eyes back to him. I feel my lips drop open slightly as we continue staring at each other. My heart hammers in my chest as he skims his thumbs along the skin of my hands.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you gonna kiss me or not?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna kiss you," he replies, smiling.

He leans toward me and presses his lips to mine gently. The immediate rush of arousal is the same as it was two nights ago, but the burn is slow, steady as we move our mouths together, kissing leisurely for several minutes. Then, grasping the hand on the back of the couch more tightly, he releases my other hand and lifts his fingers to my neck.

Reaching for his shoulder, I tug, trying to draw him closer. He scoots as close as he can with our legs in the way, never slowing the motion of his lips. Still not satisfied with our awkward position, I pull away and we both open our eyes, silently communicating. We let each other go completely, and I shift my legs, allowing him to scoot closer as he wraps his arms around me and presses me into the back of the couch.

With his lips on mine again, I lose all sense of time. We start slowly, often rearing back to smile at each other or place kisses along each other's jaws. Eventually, though, the intensity grows… my desire grows. But I'm not ready to sleep with him. Wrenching my mouth away, I let my head fall back, moaning quietly as Edward kisses down my neck. Breathing hard, he rests his head on my shoulder, leaving his lips pressed against my skin.

"This does not help my dilemma," I whisper, still trying to catch my breath.

"What dilemma, legs?"

"Are you really gonna continue to call me that?" I ask with a chuckle.

"Does it bother you?"

"No."

"Then, yeah. I'm gonna call you that," he answers. I feel his lips curl upward against my neck. "What dilemma?"

"I have to go to work tomorrow morning and talk about you," I explain. "And I'll be thinking about _this_."

"What _this_?" he teases. "This?" He presses a kiss against my skin. "Or this?" He skims his lips up my neck.

I whimper and tighten the fingers that are, just like Friday night, clutching the front of his shirt.

"This?" he says with his mouth against my ear just before he traces his tongue along the rim of my ear. "Or maybe this." He settles his lips against mine again, kissing me several times.

"All of it," I try to say, making both of us laugh when it comes out in an unintelligible murmur.

"Just be honest," he advises, pulling back to look at me. "I'm not gonna be mad if you criticize my performance. You won't say anything I don't already know."

"I think my objectivity where you're concerned is hopelessly compromised," I grumble.

He chuckles. "You can always bring back that inner bitch from Friday. She doesn't like me."

"Yes, she does. She's like that with everyone," I smile.

"I have faith that you'll come up with something terrible to say about me. If all else fails, you can talk about how unimpressive my ass is again," he says, shifting around to sit back against the couch and pulling me with him. I unclench the fingers gripping his shirt and lay my palm over his heart while I rest my head against his shoulder.

"Newton doesn't want me talking about asses anymore," I complain.

"You're going to let that stop you?"

"No, probably not," I admit. His breath ruffles my hair as he chuckles. Pressing my face against his shirt, I inhale his scent, and then exhale loudly. "I should go. I have to get up at four."

"Okay," he says, kissing the top of my head. "Are you busy Tuesday?"

"Working in the morning, but otherwise, no. Why?"

"I'd like to see you," he says. "I'll be done at the stadium by noon. We could have lunch, and then… do anything you want."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

He walks me to my truck a few minutes later, holding my hand as we head up the sidewalk.

"This is me," I say, stopping beside my truck and leaning back against it.

"What?" he asks incredulously. "You chided me for driving an ozone-destroying SUV a couple of days ago, but you drive this old truck? It probably doesn't even meet current emission standards."

"Don't be mean, Cullen," I warn, even though I'm having trouble not laughing. "I love this freaking truck."

"And it's clearly an American classic," he says, backpedaling and trying to keep a straight face. He flinches when I teasingly press my fist against his abs. Oh, good God. They're rock-solid. I'm definitely going to have to step up the core work if we date long enough to sleep together.

Date. Dating. Shit. I'm dating a player. We are going to have to set some ground rules, but there's only one thing we need to get straight tonight.

"Um… I didn't tell my dad… you know," I say uncomfortably.

"I won't mention it to anyone," he smiles. "It's just between us for now. Okay?" I nod, and we agree that I'll call him on Tuesday when I'm done working. After he opens the passenger door for me, I get in and start to slide across the bench seat. "Bella?"

Stopping in the middle of the seat, I turn back his way. He puts his palms on the seat and leans toward me. "Thanks for coming over. I hope it was a good birthday."

"It was, Cullen. Thank you," I reply, leaning forward to press my lips to his gently. We kiss twice, and then he stands up and shuts the door.

As I pull away from the curb, I look at him in the rearview mirror, still standing on the sidewalk with his hands hanging loosely from his back pockets. I'm profoundly irritated by the way my heart bumps erratically in my chest even after spending the last few hours with him. With a sigh, I reluctantly admit that despite my intention to keep my eyes open and my heart guarded with Cullen, it might already be too late.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	6. False Start

**A/N: Huge thanks to my lovely friend Littlecat358 for editing and giving me advice... over and over. I've been a little neurotic. More huge thanks to Tennesseelamb who multitasks, editing chapters while teaching elementary math to uncooperative pupils. :) Love ya, ladies! Michelle0526 was a busy mama this weekend, but I love her, too. :)**

**Thanks so much for reviewing/favoriting/following. Thank you, Nic (xoxo), for reccing and pimping, and also to twilover76 for the rec. :)  
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**Thanks for reading. Please review.  
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* * *

Stifling a yawn, I walk into the lounge Monday morning and head straight for the crappy coffee machine. Emmett is already sitting at the table in the middle of the room, but Newton is nowhere in sight. That's odd because I'm a couple of minutes late.

Immediately, my imagination runs away with me. Maybe he got hit by a truck… had to have an emergency appendectomy… was deported back to wherever douchebags come from. Maybe I won't have to listen to his carping this morning. Unfortunately, just when I start to hope, I hear his annoying voice as he comes in the door behind me.

"Oh, goody. Bella decided to join us this morning after all."

_It's 5:33, jackwagon_, I think, agitated. I control my outward reaction though. Partially because I refuse to provide him with evidence that he's getting to me, but also because I'm too freaking tired to put any real effort into sparring with him.

As I pour coffee from the pot with my right hand, I pick up the sugar shaker with my left and dump a generous amount into my cup. I usually drink my coffee black, but it's going to take more than caffeine to perk me up this morning. Still facing away from them, I stir it in slowly, allowing myself to smile as my mind drifts back to the reason for my exhaustion: Cullen. Although I went to bed before eleven, sleep didn't come easily. Memories of our date, however, did… do. Even now, a prickly warmth spreads up my spine as I remember the feel of his lips, the way he wrapped his arms around me and used his body weight to press me into the cushions of the couch.

That lingering desire, mixed with the exhilaration I felt after spending such a great evening with him, kept me awake far too late and woke me often. All night, his words kept floating through my head – _Make a wish… You look great… Yeah, I'm gonna kiss you_.

With a silent, happy sigh, I bite the inside of my cheek and force the grin off my face as I prepare to turn around. While I was wide awake last night, I also reaffirmed my decision not to tell anyone about this budding relationship for now – not even Emmett. I don't want to put him in a position of withholding information to protect me. Besides, there are two significant factors that may derail this thing with Cullen before it really even gets going: I have an enormous fear of commitment; and he'll figure out sooner or later that as a starting NFL quarterback, he can have his pick of women. I can't imagine that I'll prevail among a flock of actresses and supermodels.

When I turn around, I'm surprised that Newton has left the room again. Emmett is still hunched over the table, reading the newspaper. Without an audience, the scowl I went to so much trouble to get in place is wasted. That annoys me for real and I sigh – loudly this time – as I walk to the table. I set my laptop bag on the floor and flop down into the chair Emmett kicks away from the table for me.

"I was going to ask about your date, but judging by your attitude, I don't have to," he says, sitting up and looking at me. "Didn't break the bad first date streak, huh?"

"Hmmm," I answer ambiguously, taking a sip from the cardboard coffee cup. Since he's not reading the paper anymore, I slide it across the tabletop toward myself. I have to take another drink of the too-sweet-but-still-bitter liquid to hide my smirk when I see the front of the _Seattle Times_ Sports section. There's a picture of several Seahawks players, and number seven is mid-frame... facing away from the camera.

Swallowing more coffee, I stare at Cullen's ass. I probably should officially retract everything bad I said about it on the air. Although since what I said is the reason we met thirteen days ago, I don't regret one disparaging word.

"What was it this time, Swan? Did you criticize his fantasy team? Argue with him about the fairness of the 2-3-2 playoff format?" he teases. "Or was it the classic Kobe versus Jordan debate?"

"No. No. And there _is_ no debate. The attention and electricity that Michael Jordan brought to the NBA will never be equaled again. In addition to his on-the-court dominance, he transformed and elevated the brand worldwide," I insist vehemently, flipping the distracting picture over, and then finally turning my eyes toward him. "But we didn't argue about that, either."

"What did you fight about then?"

"Nothing," I shrug as I slump back in my chair. "In fact, during the last hour of the date, we hardly spoke at all."

That's true, but I don't disclose one very important detail: We weren't talking during that hour because we were too busy kissing. The memory of his lips, his hands affects me the same way it has for the last several – mostly sleepless – hours: Racing heart, shallow breathing, tingling skin.

"Pre-show meetings start promptly at 5:30, Bella," Newton says sharply as he reenters the lounge. His grating voice yanks me from my daydream and drops me right back into my crack of dawn reality.

"Well, since it's five thirty-seven now and we haven't started yet, I seem to have made it in plenty of time," I reply after glancing at the clock on the wall.

"We didn't start because we were waiting for _you_. If it's too difficult for you to arrive on time, perhaps you should speak to Kate or Charlotte about moving back to afternoons."

Okay, that's it. If he wants to play games, we can play games. As my irritation swells, I look at him, letting my mouth hang open in faux horror. "What?" I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. "I would never do that! I love working on the morning show."

"You're the best co-host I've ever had," Emmett chimes in, trying not to laugh. He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll decide to keep you here permanently."

"That's what I'm hoping, too," I gush, gazing adoringly at Emmett. Jeez, the last time I oversold a lie this blatantly, I was a teenager trying to convince my dad that all Matt Larson and I were doing alone in my room was homework. Newton doesn't believe me any more now than my dad did then, but at least Newton can't ground me for the rest of my life.

Muttering under his breath, he slaps the notes for the show on the table. "Now that we're running late, I'll just go over the most important points," he begins, focusing his self-important glare on me. I widen my eyes mockingly back at him. "We'll lead with the Seahawks, obviously."

"_Obviously_," I echo… using the same haughty tone he did.

"Bella, are you going to comment on everything I say this morning?" he snaps.

I pull my lips to the side briefly as if I'm mulling it over. "Probably not _everything_," I answer, punctuating my snotty response with an eyeroll. "Some of the things you say defy any sort of a logical response."

Emmett chuckles quietly beside me, nudging my foot under the table as Newton starts speaking again. I'm not sure if he's congratulating me or cautioning me. Either way, I sip my coffee and stop reacting to Newton's jabs.

When we go on the air less than twenty minutes later, we lead with the Seahawks game, as Newton directed. Emmett begins by playing several sound bites from Cullen's press conference. Like last week, the sound of his voice causes my heart to pound and my stomach to flutter anxiously, but I think I conceal it well for the first couple of minutes. I refer to the notes I made yesterday during the game as we discuss overall offensive yardage, noting which plays had the biggest gains. It's not until Emmett wants to get specific that I run into trouble.

"What did you think of Cullen's performance?" he asks.

"We just heard Cullen himself list areas of his game that will require improvement for the Seahawks to achieve any level of real success this year," I answer, looking at Emmett.

He's frowning… probably because I'm not giving any sort of personal judgment. That's _so_ not me. Giving a critical opinion about his play yesterday is more difficult than I thought it would be though. And I'm downright ill-tempered when Emmett gives his own less-than-flattering evaluation.

"I think the Seahawks could be in for a long season if Cullen can't spread the ball to his receivers more," he declares. "Constantly going to Whitlock won't keep any opposing defenses on their toes."

"It's too early to make pronouncements like that, Emmett," I argue. "He – the team – has only had two weeks to work on timing. They may need several more games to hit their stride."

"Or they may never hit it," Emmett observes.

"You're not giving him a chance," I huff, not realizing how defensive I sound until Emmett raises his eyebrows at me in surprise. Immediately, I back off and try to strengthen my position by giving statistics. "I mean, you could be right. I just think that drawing that conclusion after one game – a game where Cullen completed fifty-eight percent of his passes and threw for almost two hundred yards – is premature."

Emmett allows that he could be rushing to judgment, and we move on to discuss the defense for a couple of minutes before our first break. As soon as the commercial starts, Emmett turns to study me.

"You okay, Swan? You're testier than normal. Is this date thing bugging you more than you're letting on?" he asks quietly.

"You did _not_ just sell me out to Newton in front of a hot mic!" I whisper furiously, blocking my microphone with my hand. "Jesus, Emmett. Why don't you just talk about my date on the freaking air?"

"Want me to?" he teases, scooting his chair closer to mine. "We could do a whole segment on bad dates. Maybe get some listeners to call in and give you advice."

"I'm gonna beat the crap out of you as soon as we're away from the stupid webcam," I say, smiling but gritting my teeth.

"There's my girl," he grins, reaching over to pat my cheek, and then laughing when I shove his arm away. "You're okay? For real?"

"I'm _fine_."

"I get it. I get it," he says, holding his hands up in surrender when he hears my adamant tone. He continues studying my face though, as if the explanation for my odd behavior is evident there somewhere.

"Quit staring at me."

"But you're so pretty," he deadpans.

Laughing, I shake my head at him. "You never save any of your good material for the air, Emmett. You could win the game every day."

"I'm too busy watching my back," he responds. "You still haven't retaliated since the day I unexpectedly sprung Cullen on you."

Huh. He's right. I haven't. Uncharacteristically, it hasn't even occurred to me to try and get back at him. What the hell has Cullen done to me? Distracted me and invaded every corner of my brain? Yep. Convinced me to disavow my hard-and-fast rule against dating athletes? Yep. Made it necessary for me to vigilantly guard my heart against his charm, his looks, his insistent attention? Yep, that, too.

"I like to keep you looking over your shoulder, wondering what I'm gonna do," I cover, smirking.

"If you want to surprise me with a good-looking athlete, please let it be a swimmer," he pleads lowly, leaning closer to talk to me. "Those back muscles really do it for me."

"I'll see what I can do about getting Phelps in here."

"Whoa. Hold up, Swan," he frowns. "I meant a _female_ swimmer."

"How would that be embarrassing or painful for you?"

"Those girls are strong," he nods. "They could definitely hurt me… in a good way."

"Shut up," I say with a chuckle, knowing that most of this is for my benefit. "We're back on in twenty-two seconds."

"Did I cheer you up?" He rolls his chair back to his spot. I nod, listening to the intro as we come back from break.

"Move on to the Mariners for this segment. We'll return to NFL talk at the bottom of the hour," Newton commands in our ears. Neither of us replies in word or gesture.

"Really, Swan. I'm here for you if you need to hug it out," he whispers, flexing his arm and leaning toward me. "My pipes are solid."

Laughing silently, I shake my head at him and punch his bicep lightly before looking at the countdown clock on my monitor again. As the timer ticks down to zero, I lead in from the break, grateful that we'll be talking about a safer subject for a while.

"Welcome back to the Kickoff on KSST, Seattle's leader in sports programming. Let's turn our attention to baseball for a little while. The red-hot Mariners continued their winning streak in Toronto last night, beating the Blue Jays five to two."

I relax as Emmett and I dissect batting averages and on-base percentages. I settle back into my on-air personality, and I sound more like myself when we get back to the Seahawks during the next hour. Emmett doesn't press me for an opinion on Cullen again, but I know the reprieve won't last forever. One way or another, I'm going to have to get better at separating my personal feelings from my professional judgments. I've had to do it before – criticize players I liked off-the-field. But never someone I liked _this_ much… never someone I've been kissing.

As soon as the post-show meeting is over, I shut myself in my tiny office and pour over statistics for a couple of hours. Compared to the first-ever starts of some of the best current quarterbacks, Cullen matches up well. I compile some second game stats so I'll be prepared to analyze his play next week, and I feel better knowing I have impartial data to use for comparison.

When I hear my phone buzz on the desk, I glance down at it. My stomach flops when I see that it's a text from Cullen. Heart racing, I pick up my phone and grin as I read the message.

***Hey. Heading into film room. Wanted to say hi. Quit being so nice to me.**

***Okay. Tomorrow I'll be a bitch when I see you.**

***Funny, but I meant on your show. **

***I know. I'm working on it. You might not want to listen next week.**

***I'll still listen, Legs. Gotta go. See you tomorrow.**

***K. See ya.**

After setting my phone down again, I groan quietly and lean back in my chair. As I stare at the tiny holes in the ceiling tiles, I keep asking myself the same question: How the hell can I ever be objective about him?

And I'm afraid the answer to that question is… I can't.

* * *

"So, Bells, you haven't said a word about the Seahawks all through dinner," my dad says as I take another bite of cheesecake. I was surprised when Sue invited me to eat with them tonight at my dad's favorite steakhouse, knowing that Mondays are usually long days for him during the season. But Sue was adamant that it was his idea. "When we're together this time of year, you're always quizzing me about what's going on at the stadium."

"And you're always answering that you won't discuss it with me," I reply without swallowing. I hold my hand in front of my mouth to hide the food, but crude table manners perfected during several years of NFL training camp are difficult to overcome.

"True," he laughs. "But I figured at the very least I'd be subjected to your evaluation of Cullen's progress."

"Should have listened to my show," I quip, mouth empty this time.

"I did," he insists. "You didn't really give an opinion – you just said to give him a chance."

"Maybe that _is_ my opinion,"

"Bullhockey. You had more of an opinion on his backside the first day he moved here."

"Daaaaaad," I whine, covering my face with my hands.

"Don't embarrass her, Charlie," Sue admonishes. Peeking through my fingers, I look across the table and see her wink at me.

"She's not embarrassed; she just doesn't want to answer the question. Come on, Bells, tell me what you really think of him," he coaxes.

Blowing out a breath, I lower my hands. "I think he's gonna be good, Dad. I'm impressed."

"Funny. That's the same thing he said after he met you at the studio that day. He said he was impressed with your knowledge and sense of humor," he replies. "I told him you get those traits – and your good looks – from me."

"Thanks, Dad." I roll my eyes.

"She gets the sarcasm from you, too," Sue adds, making us both laugh.

"What do you think of him, Dad?" I ask, then qualify my statement when he looks at me suspiciously. I hold my right hand up as I swear to keep it quiet. "Off the record. Way off the record. Flying monkeys couldn't get me to repeat it, and you know how terrified I am of them."

"All right," he nods, chuckling. "I agree with you. I think once Cullen's more settled in his role, once we work out a few timing issues, he has the potential to rack up some great numbers. Hopefully with wins to go along with them."

"Then the Seahawks would sign him long-term, right?"

"Probably try. Could be difficult to keep him though if he gets hot," he says, pausing to drink the last bit of coffee from his cup. "It'll cost us. Or he may not even want to stay."

Sue asks a question then, but I don't hear her words. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I haven't thought that far ahead… haven't let myself imagine that Cullen and I might still be dating at the end of the season. But my dad's statement forces me to face the fact that Cullen might not even be living here in six months. There's another reason for me to carefully guard my heart… not fall too deeply… keep it all casual.

I can do that. Probably. Possibly. I take a few sips of water and try to refocus on my dad when he sets his napkin on the table beside his empty dessert plate.

"I'm sorry, ladies. I hate to eat and run," he says, looking apologetically at me.

I force a slight smile. "It's okay, Dad. I know this is a busy time of year for you."

"And _I_ know that you two prefer to talk without me listening anyway," he laughs. "Happy birthday, Bells. Call me later this week, okay?"

"Yep. Thanks for dinner and the new laptop bag," I answer, leaning forward to trade cheek kisses with him as he starts to stand.

"You're welcome. The dinner was me, but the bag was all Sue," he responds, turning toward her and reaching for her hand. Even after more than ten years together, they're still openly affectionate – trading looks, holding hands, kissing hello and goodbye no matter where they are.

"Don't stay at work too late, Charlie," Sue admonishes, smiling at him. He leans down to kiss her and whispers something that makes her nod and giggle. Giggle. How ridiculous. Neither of them notices as I roll my eyes.

As soon as my dad's out the door of the restaurant, Sue leans across the table. "Okay, Bella. There's a storm brewing behind those brown eyes. Out with it."

"What storm? Maybe I'm just grossed out by the inappropriate parental PDA," I joke.

"Deflecting with humor," she nods. "That's your favorite way of not talking about whatever's going on with you. Could this be related to that mysterious birthday dinner you had last night? Your dad said you were tight-lipped about it. How was it?"

"The dinner was good. Really good." Unable to contain my smile, I lower my eyes and push my dessert plate away.

"Now we're getting somewhere," she replies. "Anything you're ready to share?"

"Um, no." I meet her gaze again, shaking my head. "Not because of you though. It's new. It's… scary. You know I'm not good at lasting relationships."

"Sometimes it just takes the right man to overcome that," she soothes. "All right. I won't snoop. But I'm always here if you need anything."

"I love you for both of those reasons, among others," I laugh.

"Sweetie, I love you, too. And I'm thrilled that you had a really good dinner on your birthday," she smiles. "If you're ever ready to introduce him to us, you just let me know."

I have a little twinge of guilt for not disclosing that Dad already knows him, but I push that aside. I can't worry about that now. Instead, I mention the contract extension I was offered last week, telling her that if my lawyer okays it, I'm going to sign it. She promises to keep it quiet and let me tell my dad myself once it's a done deal.

We stay a little longer at the restaurant, but I head home early. I don't know what Cullen and I are doing tomorrow, so I straighten up my apartment a little, just in case he comes here. By the time I get into bed, I'm nervous… excited… and sleepy. Smiling, I flip my pillow over to the cool side and let my eyes slide closed, still thinking of him.

* * *

At Tuesday's post-show meeting, Newton tells us that we'll be traveling to LA next week and doing the show remotely for three days as the Mariners close out the season against the Angels. It's been several years since the Mariners were in the playoffs, and Charlotte wants to capitalize on the city's excitement. I'm not thrilled by the thought of spending three days out of town with Newton, but at least Emmett will be there, too. He, of course, is elated, already enthusiastically plotting trips to the beach and Disneyland. Ten thousand six year-olds and one giant twenty-eight year old who will _act _like a six year-old. Happiest place on earth my ass.

Afterward, Emmett and I have to record commercials for some of KSST's advertisers. We get those done fairly quickly, but then Newton tells me I have to do three more alone. Once Emmett's gone, Newton becomes extra picky, making me re-record over and over because my tone is flat or my inflection emphasized the wrong point – or he's just being a jackwagon. I vote for option number three.

It's almost eleven when I'm finally finished. Before I leave the station, I stop briefly in Riley's office to say hello and gladly take the folder of baseball research he offers. For the last two years, we've split the research duties on our show, and even though we're not hosting together right now, we've still been sharing our info with each other. Yesterday, I emailed him all the stats I have on the 49ers, who the Seahawks will play this week. He, in turn, has broken down the teams and pitchers the Mariners will face for the rest of the season. Teams and pitchers the Mariners will mostly have to beat in order to keep their position for the playoffs.

Once I get to my apartment, I call Cullen, but his phone goes to voicemail.

"Hey, Edward. Um, I'm home. Call me when you're done working," I say, hating how flustered I sound… hell, how flustered I _am_. After I hang up, I set my phone down hard on the table and lean forward, resting my head on my forearm. "Oh, my God. I sounded so stupid."

After a minute, I pull myself together and sit up, and then decide to look at the research Riley gave me. Quickly becoming engrossed, I get through about half of the papers, highlighting and making notations as I go along. I don't realize how much time has passed until someone knocks at my door. It's been almost an hour since I called Cullen.

As I walk toward the door, the knocking starts again.

"Hold your hors–," I grumble, yanking the door open. When I see my date standing in the hallway, I erupt in laughter, covering my mouth with my hand. "What _is_ that thing?"

"My disguise. I had to go four places to find it," Cullen explains, using his index fingers to smooth the worst fake moustache I've ever seen across his upper lip. "No good?"

"Um, no," I shake my head, stepping back to let him inside. "And you'll get killed in the local press if someone catches you wearing that hat."

"Why? I've been a Cubbies fan all my life," he defends, pulling at the bill of his cap.

"You can be a Cubs fan _after_ the season," I advise. "But not now. Not while the Mariners still have a shot at the playoffs."

When I shut the door and turn around, he's right in front of me.

"Hi," he says quietly, lifting one hand to the side of my waist. When he starts to lean down, I press my palm gently against his chest.

"Have we reached the point in our relationship where we kiss hello?" I ask, smiling at him.

"Yes. It comes somewhere between you criticizing my ass on the radio and me taking you to a jazz club."

"When are you taking me to a jazz club?"

"Friday night."

"Okay," I shrug, sliding my hand up to his shoulder. He kisses me twice, but then I pull back, rubbing my finger across my itchy upper lip. "That tickles."

Reaching up, he rips the bad 'stache away. "Ouch," he hisses.

I wind both arms around his neck and pull him down to me, placing kisses along his upper lip until he groans quietly. "Better?" I whisper.

He hums against my mouth, wrapping his arms around me as our lips meet again. The kiss rapidly intensifies, each of us opening our mouths, pressing our bodies closer together. Reluctantly, I break away after a couple of minutes, knowing that the arousal coursing through me will crush my wavering self-control if I don't stop now. But I'm determined not to sleep with him… yet. Not this soon. Not this easily. As I bury my face against his chest, he slides his hands up and down my back several times, finally resting them just above my ass.

"Maybe we should go eat lunch."

"Yeah," I agree, looking up at him. "Want to borrow a Mariners hat?"

He says yes, and then follows me to my room, leaning against the doorway while I get it from my closet. The lop-sided grin on his face as I approach him reignites the spark of desire, almost causing me to chuck my resolve out the window and pull him toward my bed. Instead, I smirk, holding my hat toward him, but retracting it before he can grab it. "This is my favorite one. I want it back. Give me yours as insurance."

"Done," he shrugs, pulling it off and holding it toward me. Once we make the switch, he adjusts the strap on mine so it'll fit, and then puts it on. Damn, I definitely don't look as good in this hat as he does. "I like it. Want to trade permanently?"

"No way, Cullen. I freaking love my hat," I answer firmly, but I'm smiling. I hang his hat on my bedroom doorknob and we leave a minute later, holding hands as we exit my building.

We have lunch at an out-of-the-way diner, settled into opposite sides of a booth. After we're done eating, we stay for another hour, talking about college, first jobs, first loves. Neither of us mentions our families though, choosing to keep the conversation light today. He also eats dessert… twice.

"Tuesdays are the only day I eat like this during the season," he explains as the waitress sets a huge piece of coconut cream pie in front of him, the chaser for the chocolate cake he ate half an hour ago. "Wednesdays, it's back to lean meat and veggies."

"Uh huh. Sure," I tease.

"Seriously. Weigh-ins are Friday," he reminds me. "Here. Have a bite. It's really good." He holds his fork across the table toward me. As I close my lips around the tines, I lift my eyes to meet his and I swear I can't look away. Even when I sit back, chewing and nodding my agreement about the deliciousness of the pie, our gazes remain fused. Under the table, I slide my feet forward, hooking them around one of his. At the same time, he reaches across the table and I link our fingers together.

My heart flutters wildly in my chest as a fresh wave of heat rolls through me. Every time I think I'm becoming accustomed to his presence, my body proves me wrong. I don't even recognize this sensation. What the hell is this? It feels like lust… but not.

He grips my fingers more tightly and I hear him swallow. After a few more seconds, he looks back down at his pie, but we keep our hands and feet tangled together.

"Um, I got pressured into appearing on Coach Erickson's radio show tonight at seven," he says after clearing his throat. "I feel like a VIP jerk for double-booking myself this way. I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal, Edward. I know you have a lot of work responsibilities, even when it's your day off."

"I feel guilty since the show's on KSEA though," he admits, reddening a little as he looks at me.

Laughing, I shake my head at him. "Don't feel bad. We beat them in the ratings every week."

"I knew that competitive streak would show up again sooner or later," he grins.

"I like to win," I shrug.

"I do, too," he agrees.

Outside, it's turned into a rainy afternoon, so he suggests that we go to a movie after we leave the diner. I agree; I don't really care what we do. I just want to be with him. When we get into the theater, the movie is starting – and the place is practically deserted. Only a handful of other people are scattered among the seats in here. Edward pulls me into a row at the back.

"Really, Cullen?" I whisper as we sit down.

"Really, Swan? Are you insinuating that I have an ulterior motive for sitting in the back of a dark theater with you?" he answers lowly. Biting my lip unsurely, I turn my head to look at him. He leans closer, putting his lips against my ear. "I do, but I was trying to be smooth about it."

I can't stop the giggle that escapes, although it dies against his lips when he leans over to kiss me a couple of times. Arms intertwined, we sit back and watch the first twenty minutes of the movie, but Edward's running commentary makes it difficult for me to pay attention to what's happening on the screen.

Exasperated, I finally twist in my seat to face him. "Do you always talk during movies?" I whisper.

"Yeah. It's annoying, huh?"

"Yes," I laugh. "But I think I can shut you up."

He comes willingly when I reach for him, and we both shift around, getting as close as possible with the hard, plastic armrest in the way. As our lips meet, he slips one hand under my hair to cup the back of my neck, stroking his fingers slowly along my skin. Unlike earlier today, this kiss doesn't turn feverish. Our tongues slide together lazily. My fingers mimic his, ghosting across the nape of his neck, unrushed.

After the bill of his hat – well, my hat – hits me in the forehead for the fourth time, he pulls back slightly.

"Sorry, Legs," he murmurs, smiling as he reaches between us. He grabs the bill and twists it around to face backward. Then, staring at me, he covers my hand where it rests on his neck, squeezing gently before skimming his fingers all the way up my arm.

Molding his mouth to mine again, his hand continues to roam – gliding down my back, and then along the outside of my thigh. He pauses to grasp my knee, lifting my leg to drape over his. Clutching him tighter, I try to press myself closer as his roving hand comes to rest at the side of my hip. We continue kissing until I can't think… can't breathe.

Suddenly feeling panicked, I rear back. Cullen's eyes pop open in surprise.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I nod shakily, letting my leg slide off of his. I make myself smile slightly, and he smiles in return before we move to face forward again. He reaches across the armrest to put his hand on my leg, and despite the fact that I'm still freaked out, I put my hand over his.

He's quiet – mostly – for the rest of the movie. I stare at the screen, laugh when he laughs, and wonder why my emotions about him are so jumbled. I'm terrified of him, yet I like him. He turns me into a nervous wreck half the time, but I want to spend time with him. I definitely like kissing him. Then again, the abrupt urge to flee that had me pulling away only minutes ago is also strong.

Sighing quietly, I conclude that I must have deep-seated psychological issues when it comes to relationships. Wow. There's a newsflash. After rolling my eyes at my own foolishness, I glance down at our hands, looking at his long, slender fingers resting just above my knee. And seeing my fingers laced between them.

Unable to stop myself, I lay my other hand on his forearm. It's his left arm – his non-throwing arm. I brush the light coating of hair back and forth a few times. Then I trace my fingers from his wrist to his inner elbow, pressing lightly when I feel the muscles flex beneath my touch. As I skim my fingers back down his arm, he squeezes my leg and leans over.

"Enjoying the movie, Swan?"

"Yep." I turn to look at him, pushing away my worries for the moment. "It's scintillating. Outstanding drama."

"It's a comedy," he cracks, knowing I was joking, too. "And it's over." That part I didn't know.

As we walk outside, he checks his watch, declaring that he'd better take me home. I know he doesn't want to be late for Coach's show. I reassure him that I'm not upset.

He walks me to my door, bending down to kiss me, but like earlier, rising anxiety has me pulling away before it turns into much more than a peck.

"Seven o'clock Friday?" he asks as I unlock and open my door, confirming what we agreed on during lunch. I nod before saying goodbye and disappearing inside, leaving a slightly confused, beautiful man in the hallway.

I keep myself distracted for a while by calling my mom, but I've got an eye on the clock the whole time. When it's time for the coach's show to begin, I make an excuse to hang up, and then turn my stereo on, tuning in to KSEA. Picking up a magazine, I sit down in the middle of my couch, propping my bare feet on the coffee table.

I genuinely like Coach Erickson, but I impatiently flip through my magazine – not really reading anything – for three segments before he finally brings Edward on. They talk about last Sunday's game, and then touch on next Sunday's game, too. I'm impressed by how much Edward already knows about the 49ers defensive players and the schemes they run most against inexperienced quarterbacks. Toward the end of the show, they move on from football.

"Good choice of head wear, Cullen," Coach teases, explaining the Mariners ball cap while the crowd at whatever bar they're broadcasting from cheers. "Didn't take you long to get your Mariners gear, huh?"

"Actually, I borrowed this hat from a friend," Edward laughs. "But I was told I have to return it, so I'll be getting my own soon."

I giggle as the bar crowd applauds again. Then Coach asks a final question before the show ends.

"Hey! I didn't ask how you celebrated your first win. What did you do?" Coach prods, following up with a promise that Cullen won't get in trouble for his answer. I toss the magazine to the side and sit up straight. Holding my breath, I wait to see what he'll say.

"I went home," he responds. Judging by the tone of his voice, I bet he's turning red. "Had some dinner. Had some cake. Sat outside listening to music. It was a great night."

My breath rushes out in a gust. "It _was_ a great night," I whisper, agreeing with him even though he can't hear me.

The warmth – heat – once again pulsing through my veins is quickly becoming a familiar reaction to Cullen, although I'm still not sure how to label it. My heart pounds furiously as I get up and walk to the kitchen on shaky legs. I pick up my phone and send him a text.

***You can keep my hat. **


	7. Pass Interference

**A/N: Sorry for the break between updates. New position at work almost killing me. Two teenagers, a pre-teen and a husband seemingly willing to finish the job. :) Hoping I can get back on track now.**

**Thanks go out to Littlecat358 for beta'ing. And to Michelle0526 and tennesseelamb for pre-reading and editing. You have no idea how much I love you all.  
**

**I also got recced by the Fic Whisperer. Thanks, Nic! Thanks, also, to Twilover76 and MagTwi78 for the recs. I truly appreciate it.  
**

**I'm hardly ever home right now since I'm at work all day and on chauffeur duty almost every night with the kiddos (who ever thought I'd be looking forward to the day they can drive themselves?), but I read and love and treasure all reviews, follows and favorites.  
**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.  
**

* * *

"Son of a buck," I mutter, looking through my fantasy roster once more.

Around me, the noise level increases as the back room of Cooper's Bar fills up; our league meeting starts in ten minutes. I usually have my lineup for next week ready to turn in by now, but I'm struggling to decide which players I should start. Even though I made one good trade earlier today, I still don't have much hope for my team this season.

"Something wrong, Swan? Heh-heh-heh," Emmett prods, punctuating his question with a condescending chuckle. With difficulty, I resist the urge to kick him under the table. He knows I'm annoyed by how poorly my fantasy team did last weekend. We spent three segments talking about it on the show this morning. "Have you _ever_ been this far down in the league standings?"

"Don't think so." My tone stays even, but I'm certain my agitation is obvious to him – I'm continuously clicking the button on my retractable pen.

"You know, when you picked such an odd mix of players during the draft, I assumed you had some elaborate endgame," he muses, pausing to sip his beer. "Some Machiavellian plan that would make the rest of us feel like dumbshits again this year."

"Maybe I do," I retort.

"Nah. I figured it out the next day. What was wrong with you during the draft, I mean."

_That_ gets my attention, and I turn to look at him. Emmett is smart and he's always been observant. Did he catch on to my preoccupation with watching Cullen on the big screen that night?

"Huh?" I ask, playing dumb… but holding my breath.

"Come on, Bella. We both know you were only paying attention to one thing that night."

Oh, crap. He knows. My mind races a hundred miles an hour, trying to come up with an explanation. Surely I can pass off my poorly disguised obsession with watching the Seahawks that night as research for our show.

Hoping to conceal my panic, I roll my eyes and sigh dramatically before I answer. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

Crooking his finger at me until I lean closer, he whispers in my ear. "Connor. I know you have a crush on him." Stunned, I pull away slightly. The wide-eyed look of surprise on my face is genuine – I don't have to pretend at all. Emmett continues, determined to reveal his deductive reasoning prowess. "You were overly helpful when he was picking his team. You smiled like the Cheshire cat when he defended you to Peter. And you kept sneaking looks at him all night."

Pursing my lips to the side, I think about what he's said. I did help Connor quite a bit because I like him – _as a friend_. And I was pleased when he and Emmett put Peter the prick in his place. But Connor is not the one I was sneaking looks at all night… it was the quarterback on the television over Connor's shoulder. Number seven. Cullen. The guy I spent most of the day with yesterday… the one I talked to on the phone for an hour last night before bed… the one I'm letting keep my favorite hat.

Suddenly aware that my lips have curled into a smile – and I'm dangerously close to giggling – I force my brow into a frown.

"It's okay. I won't tell," he remarks, apparently convinced by my expression that he's guessed correctly. "But you know he has a pretty serious girlfriend, right?"

"Um, I know," I nod, deciding this is a much better explanation than anything I would have come up with. I lower my eyes as if I'm ashamed. "I would never try to bust up someone's relationship. I'll behave from now on."

"'Atta girl," he says, punching my arm lightly. "Hey, we'll have some fun in SoCal. That'll take your mind off it."

Emmett spent the whole afternoon texting me all the things he wants to do during our free time in L.A next week. He's full of ideas. I only have one: Ditch Newton. I could be prejudiced, but I think my idea is the best of the bunch.

While I finish my lineup sheet, he rambles on and on about going to the beach, the Santa Monica pier, some restaurant where celebrities supposedly hang out. I'm not that excited, but I play along, promising to do most of what he wants. It's not like we'll have a lot of down time anyway; we'll still be doing our morning show daily and also providing some commentary during the three games the Mariners have while we're there.

I'm so busy appeasing Emmett that I don't notice Peter heading my way until he pulls out the chair on the other side of me. He smiles smugly as he sits down. He's currently in third place; seven spots ahead of me. I fully expect him to gloat, and he doesn't disappoint, snidely whispering comments throughout the meeting. It takes an incredible amount of restraint, but I don't react to him at all. I _do_ almost spit beer on him, though… twice.

As soon as the meeting is over, Emmett stands. "Swan, I'll go tell the commish that we won't be here next week, okay?"

"Uh huh," I reply distractedly, packing my notebook and laptop away. When I feel an unwelcome hand clamp onto my shoulder, I bristle instantly, turning to face Peter with one raised, pissed off eyebrow.

"Look at the bright side, Bella. You're so far down in the standings, you don't have much further to drop," he taunts.

Scooting my chair back roughly, I shrug his hand away as I close the flap of my new messenger laptop bag. "I prefer to look at it as a personal challenge to launch a comeback."

"There's no way you can win the league with your team," he sneers.

"Maybe not," I remark as I stand, plastering a wide, fake smile on my face. "But it sure will be fun to watch your free fall while I try."

When I turn around, Connor is standing right behind me. Startled, I stumble backward into my chair. Connor reaches one arm toward me, and I grip his forearm to regain my balance as we smile at each other.

"Sorry, Bella," he says. "I just wanted to say thanks for helping with my team. I've never been in second place before – even though I know it's only the first week. But I feel guilty. I think you spent too much time on my team and not enough on your own."

Laughing, I shake my head. "No, no. Congratulations on your weekend. Hope it continues," I reply. "Until I catch up, at least."

"Still, I want to buy you a drink. You have time?"

I start to agree, but then see Emmett coming back toward us. When I realize that his gaze is fixed on the spot where I'm still clinging to Connor's arm, I quickly pull my hand away. "Uh, I can't tonight. I'll take a rain check, though. Later in the season?"

"Okay, but if you pass me before then, _you're_ buying," he teases.

Emmett walks me to my truck a few minutes later, his arm slung around my shoulders while he advises me on ways to get over my fake crush.

"I'm not picking up a random guy at a bar, Em," I argue. "That's not my style."

"Don't knock it. Sometimes hookups work out."

"For you maybe. Speaking of hookups, how _is_ the redheaded Seagal?" I ask, jabbing him lightly with my elbow as we stop beside my truck. "Is she cool?"

"I don't really know," he admits. "We don't talk that much. But she's hot. That's for sure."

"Gross," I laugh, opening the door. I set my laptop bag on the bench seat and push it toward the passenger side. "You're such a boy. See you in the morning."

Both of our phones ping at the same time. Emmett pulls his from his pocket.

"Newton. To both of us," he remarks. I watch with amusement as his lips move while he reads the message. "Cool. He just got Cullen confirmed for the show tomorrow. A full seven-minute phone interview."

Oh, crap. Feeling my pulse begin to race, I concentrate on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. What am I gonna do? I have a difficult time talking _about_ Cullen on the radio without giving myself away. How the heck am I going to talk _to_ him? When my phone rings, I have a feeling I know who it is – and there's no way I can answer right now.

"I figured Newton would be aiming for an interview with Cullen after last night. Did you hear him on Coach Erickson's show? He really does seem like a good guy." Emmett is studying my frozen face. "Bella? You gonna get that?"

Jolted out of my daze, I pull my phone from my back pocket. Cullen's number is displayed on the screen, just like I thought. I silence the ringer and look back up at Emmett. "I'll call them back. Uh, I'll do the interview prep if you take the lead on-air."

This is a no-brainer for Emmett; he prefers to ask most of the questions when we have guests anyway. He readily agrees, and I head home to get started. I don't call Cullen back until I'm sitting in bed with my laptop. He answers on the second ring.

"Hey, legs. What are you doing?"

"Writing questions to ask you tomorrow."

"Are you already home? I was gonna see if you wanted to stop by after your fantasy meeting."

"I would have if I didn't have to work," I respond. "Whose fault is that?"

"I'm guessing you're going to say mine," he laughs. "It was really the Seahawks PR department, though. I'm not the one who set it up. I probably found out at the same time you did."

"Whatever," I mutter snottily. "I'm just warning you, I have no idea how I'm gonna act tomorrow. You might get the inner bitch at seven a.m."

"I'm not scared of her anymore." He's amused; I'm not.

"I'm glad this is fun for you, Cullen." Ah, evidently he doesn't have to wait until morning to hear from the inner bitch.

"You're really worried?" After I huff out a yes, his tone changes. "Swan, just be yourself. I listen to you every morning and you're always great."

"You listen every day?" I ask, disarmed by his statement… by the ease with which he says it.

"Yeah. I like hearing your voice when I wake up," he says softly. Oh, hell. How am I supposed to guard myself against him? Then he chuckles. "Well, sometimes it's Emmett that I hear first. I'm not so crazy about that."

I laugh with him, but know that if we stay on the phone, I'm going to end up writing questions like _"What do you wear to bed, Cullen?"_ and _"Would you like me to wake you up in person?"_

"Still, Emmett has a pretty sexy voice," I joke, knowing that I'm nowhere near ready to talk about the way he makes me feel. "All right. I gotta finish my work. I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Goodnight, legs."

"Night."

With a sigh, I hang up and lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes. I've never fallen for someone this way before… this hard, this fast. I don't want to stop it – I'm not sure I could if I tried anyway. But the growing intensity of my emotions scares me more each time I talk to him, and strong feelings are not something I've dealt with well in the past.

Opening my eyes, I smile wryly as I type a question on the interview list – one I'll delete in a few minutes.

_What the hell am I going to do about you?_

* * *

During the pre-show meeting the next morning, Newton reluctantly agrees that my list of stats and questions is better than his. He even manages to choke out a "Nice work, Bella", although the grimace on his face indicates that it's painful for him to utter the words.

I start the show feeling pretty calm, but as the clock creeps closer to Cullen's segment, my anxiety level increases. We have a five-minute break just before his interview, and I rush to the ladies' room, taking several deep breaths while I wash my hands. When I get back in the studio, we still have two minutes 'til we're on-air again, and Emmett is in the control room. He doesn't look happy, but since the mic isn't on in there, I can't hear what he and Newton are discussing.

I sit down in my chair, facing away from them. Taking a final look at the sheet I prepared on Cullen, I grab a highlighter and mark a couple of stats we can talk about if the conversation stalls.

"Bella, Cullen's on the line and ready to go," Seth says in my ear. As my heart flutters nervously, I flash a thumbs up over my shoulder. "And Newton wants you to do the interview."

Instantly, I swivel my chair around to look at them through the window. Emmett is stomping his way back into the studio. Newton is on the phone, not paying attention to me.

"What's going on?" I hiss, facing Emmett as he sits down.

"Newton thinks the dynamic will be more interesting if you ask the questions since you're a woman and you have a relationship with Cullen," he grumbles, making air quotes around some of what he said.

"What?" My lips drop open as I breathe quickly.

"Because of the ass comments and the way Cullen and you joked around when he came on the show the next day. And at the rally last week, Newton liked the way Cullen answered the _one_ question you asked. He thinks you guys have some great rapport on the air or something." He waves his hand my way, clearly grumpy about the decision.

"Emmett, I don't want to–."

"It's okay. He's probably right," he says, dismissing my protest. "We're on in ten seconds."

I clear my throat nervously as Newton counts me in. "Welcome back to the Kickoff on KSST. As Emmett said before the break, we are joined by a special guest this morning. Seahawks quarterback Edward Cullen is on the line with us. Good morning, Edward."

"Hey, guys."

I begin with basic questions about his weekly routine; listeners are always curious about what goes on behind the scenes. Then we move on to last week's win over the Rams. I let him talk freely, completely veering away from the topics I planned to cover, but I love listening to him dissect the plays, the defensive schemes.

As he's talking, I start to relax, and by the time we're into the fourth minute, it's less of an interview and more of a conversation – a two-person conversation. I'm so engrossed in what he's saying that I kind of forget we're on the air, and I'm startled when Emmett butts in, reading a question off the list I prepared.

"Were you ever worried that you would always be a backup quarterback? That you'd never get a chance to start?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course, Emmett. But I'm pretty determined. When there's something I really want, I don't give up easily."

"You're used to getting your way, then?" Emmett's words are clipped. I know he's pissed off about the interview, but he shouldn't be short with a guest.

Edward doesn't seem bothered by the bad manners, chuckling before he answers. "Not exactly. But I figured if I worked hard enough, I'd eventually have the opportunity to prove myself. And I've been training for this since I was sixteen."

"Well, your persistence seems to have paid off," Emmett remarks brusquely, still not making eye contact with me. "But now you have to go on the road to face the Forty-Niners, whose defense is ranked top-five in the league."

"They're actually ranked second in red zone defense, and it will be a challenge to go against them," Edward agrees, continuing to ignore Emmett's impolite tone. "But every week in the NFL is tough. And, honestly, that's why we all play the game. We're competitors."

"How do you deal with it when you lose?" I ask, attempting to wrest control of the interview back from my co-host, Mr. Testosterone.

"It stings, you know, for a few hours," Cullen admits. "And then you have to let it go for the most part because there's always another game to prepare for."

Emmett rushes to interject before I speak again. "Realistically, what are your expectations for Sunday? The current line has the Seahawks as a ten-point underdog."

The question, although it's not one of mine, is legitimate. However, the way Emmett asks it teeters on the line between hard-hitting and downright rude. Neither of us would normally challenge a hometown player in such a way, which leads me to believe that he's intentionally attempting to make Edward mad. Edward remains laid-back when he answers, though.

"I don't really pay attention to that kind of stuff. The games are decided by the players on the field, not by odds makers in Vegas."

Apparently disappointed that he's failed to incite a reaction, Emmett goes a step further, touching on a mostly-taboo interview subject that no player ever wants to answer: The future. "What do you think will happen next year? Think the Seahawks will offer you a long-term deal?"

Turning to Emmett, I frown and mouth, "What the hell?" He shrugs. I'm not sure what he's trying to prove.

"It's too early for me to speculate on that," Edward answers evenly.

"But would you want to stay if you had the opportunity?"

"Absolutely. I really like it here."

"If you have more games like last week, I think you'll have fans begging you to stay," I offer, trying to smooth things over before we wrap up. "We know you've got to get going."

"Yeah, I've actually got a meeting with the Chief in a few minutes," he offers.

"You don't want to be late," I tease. "Trust me on that one."

"I trust you, Bella," he says with a chuckle. "Thanks for having me on, guys."

After we thank him and say goodbye, we throw straight to break. As soon as we're clear, Emmett leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and looks at me. He knows what's coming. Glancing into the control room, I see that Newton is on the phone again; he's not listening to us.

"You'd better hope Cullen sucks and gets run out of Seattle," I seethe, glaring at Emmett, "because he'll never agree to come on with us again."

"Lighten up, Swan. Guys aren't as sensitive about this stuff as chicks."

"_Chicks_?" I realize that Emmett is choosing his words for maximum offensive effect… and it's working. I'm breathing fast; my heart is pounding. I don't recall ever being this mad at him before. "What were you doing during that interview?"

"Trying to see what he's made of. You were just letting him run the whole damn show," he declares.

"Bullhockey. Don't pull that macho, what-kind-of-a-man-are-you crap with me. That ambush wasn't about Cullen. If you have a problem with Newton, then take it up with him," I spit. "Don't take it out on our guests, and don't take it out on me."

Turning away from him, I study the screen in front of me to see what we're supposed to discuss during the next half hour.

"Great segment, you two," Newton pronounces excitedly in our earpieces. "Bella, I want you to work on some interview strategy for next week. I'll email you a list of Mariners players we'll be talking to."

When I hear Emmett chuckle, I refuse to look at him.

"Well, we did discover _one_ thing about Cullen this morning," he states. When his declaration goes unacknowledged despite his lengthy pause, he continues. "He's better at controlling his outbursts than you are."

I use every ounce of willpower I possess to remain stoic for the remainder of the break. When we're back on, I act normal, but I refuse to look at or speak to Emmett off the air. Finally, during the 8:30 half hour, he writes me a note.

_I'm sorry. You were right. I won't act like that again._

I read it, but don't reply, prompting him to take it back and write more.

_I'll take you to lunch. You pick the place._

Again, I don't do more than glance at the paper. He tries again.

_You can call me a jackwagon as many times as you want._

Even though I'm still mad, that one makes me chuckle. I've certainly had plenty of bad radio moments, too, so I give in, scribbling down the name of a pretty expensive restaurant on the backside of his note. He cringes but nods when I show him. Pulling the note back toward me, I write one more sentence. Smirking, I watch him read it.

_And trade me your best fantasy running back._

It's an unfair demand, and I wouldn't do it even if he agreed. It would be unethical for me to force a move like that. Plus, it's against league rules. But watching the color drain from his face before he looks up and realizes I'm joking amuses me. And it means one thing: I win.

* * *

In the late afternoon, I stop by my lawyer's office to hear what he has to say about the new contract Charlotte and Kate offered me. As soon as I'm settled in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, Jenks levels his dark eyes at me.

"Bella, I have some reservations about this contract," he says, handing the papers across his desk to me.

"The non-compete clause?" I ask, nodding when he answers yes. "Me, too, but I think that's a deal breaker for them."

"The way it's written, you have to comply whether you leave KSST voluntarily or involuntarily," he says. Noting my confused look, he explains further. "Even if you get fired, you can't work in any broadcast media outlet – radio _or_ television – within a fifty-mile radius for a year. That's a pretty steep penalty."

"So, you think I shouldn't sign it?"

"I think you should propose that they remove the involuntary portion of the clause at the very least," he hedges.

"And if they won't?"

"I can't recommend that you sign it," he shrugs. "I'm sure you don't intend to get fired, but if you do, or even if you get laid off, you'd still be obliged to comply with the contract."

Fired. He's right that I don't intend to get myself fired, but I don't know how the station management would view what I have going with Cullen. My pulse races and I take a stuttering breath as I look down at the papers on my lap.

"There's not a morals clause in here, right?" I mumble, flipping through the pages of the contract.

"As your lawyer, it worries me that you're asking that question," he sighs. "You're not engaging in behavior that would be in violation of one, are you?"

"Uh, that would depend what it covered," I answer, looking up at him. "What if I was in a relationship with a co-worker or something?"

"If that's a violation of a known company policy, they could terminate you for cause with or without a morals clause," he advises, leaning back in his chair. "But there isn't one in this proposal, no. So, unless you're violating a specific policy or doing something otherwise dishonest or unethical, you should be all right."

"Okay. Thanks, Mr. Jenks," I answer, feeling more at ease. I don't know of any rule KSST has that governs who I can or cannot date. After putting the contract in my bag, I stand to shake his hand.

"Bella," he urges, grasping my hand more tightly for an instant. "Whatever you're up to, please be careful. You're getting a generous raise in this deal. I'd hate for you to give it all to me for legal fees."

"Me, too," I nod, smiling. "I'll be fine."

* * *

"This is not the kind of girl I am," I mutter, standing in front of my closet the next evening. I slide hanger after hanger along the rod, instantly rejecting everything I see. Too dressy. Too casual. Too businessy. "Jeans and flip flops. _That's_ the kind of girl I am. Not jazz clubs and heels."

Sighing disgustedly – and getting closer and closer to the back of the closet – I turn around again to look at the bed where I laid out my favorite skinny, black pants. They're my go-to pants when I don't know what to wear… and I have no idea what to wear tonight.

"Liked it better when I only had _first_ dates," I grumble. Then, realizing what I said, I look up at the ceiling and quickly apologize to the karma gods. "I take it back. I take it back. I take it back."

And someone up there must hear me because when I look down again, moving the next hanger out of the way, my prayers are answered. "I forgot I had this," I say quietly, pulling the shirt from the closet.

When Jess talked me into buying it last spring at the boutique where she works, she insisted it was so cool that I couldn't pass it up. It's delicate, made of a double-layer of an almost-sheer fabric. The shirt is flesh-colored, with black ruffles at the neck and arms. I've never worn it before. It's too skimpy for a first date. It's too sheer for work. It wasn't dressy enough for the college friend's wedding I went to last summer.

It's perfect for tonight.

I lay it on the bed with the pants, and then go back to the bathroom to finish getting ready. I'm nervous as I get dressed a few minutes later, buttoning the front of my shirt with shaking hands.

"Jeez. It's not like it's our first date," I scold, looking at myself in the dresser mirror. It's our third. Or fourth if you count dinner last Friday. But I was a bitch most of that night, so I think it shouldn't count. It would be the crappiest first date in history.

Stepping back, I look in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. "This is _still_ not the kind of girl I am," I insist, focused on the high-heels, the sexy-for-me outfit. I grab my cropped, black blazer out of the closet and put it on, and then look at the clock. I'm ready twenty minutes early.

Walking to the living room, I pace back and forth a couple of times, but the sound of my heels on the hardwoods seems too noisy. Afraid to wrinkle my pants, I don't sit down, instead standing behind the couch. I grab the television remote and turn on SportsCenter, but I'm not really paying attention to it. I'm still inexplicably jumpy. What am I so afraid of? That I'll freak out again? That he won't like me anymore? That I like him too much? Crap, I think it's all of those things. Lost in my thoughts, I'm startled when he knocks at the door.

"Cullen," I greet, forcing myself to smile as I open the door.

"Swan," he answers with a laugh. He bends down a little to kiss me. "You're tall."

"For about three hours," I reply, stepping back to let him in. "Then I'll ditch the heels."

He hands me a bag as he comes through the doorway. "Got you something."

Pushing the door shut with my elbow, I turn toward him and peek inside the bag. Before I can stop myself, I giggle. "You got me a new Mariners hat?"

"I owe you one since you saved my ass the other day."

I take it out of the bag. It's dark blue with a tattered bill – exactly like something I would pick out for myself.

"Thank you. I love it," I say, looking up at him. He's watching me, smiling at me. My heart speeds up as I reach for his neck, pulling him down toward me. Just before our lips meet, I jerk back, narrowing my eyes. "You're not taking your Cubs hat back, are you?"

"Nope. Will you let me borrow it sometimes, though?"

"Anytime you want," I murmur. I lean in and kiss him, wrapping both arms around his neck. His hands rest at the back of my waist, but he pulls away before the kiss goes very far.

"We should go if we want seats," he says softly. He lifts one hand to my face, tracing my jaw with the backs of his fingers.

I agree, and twenty minutes later, we park in a part of town I'm not very familiar with. After Edward pays the parking attendant, we head up the sidewalk holding hands.

"Where are we going?" I ask when he pulls me into an alley.

"Coolest little speakeasy in Seattle," he answers, reassuring me with his crooked grin. "You'll love it. I promise."

Squeezing his fingers a little more tightly, I follow him to an almost-unmarked door. The only sign at the entrance is a small bronze plaque – and it's so weathered that it's difficult to read. I can only make out the word "Gin". He opens the door, and we walk inside and up the steep, narrow, poorly-lit stairs. At the top, we go through another doorway and into a room that is exactly what Edward described: Cool.

Along a brick side wall is a bar stocked with more bottles of alcohol than I can count. A stage with a piano, drum set, and bass is on the back wall. And scattered around are tables, couches, deep bucket chairs. Edward looks around, and then points to a table on the far wall.

"Is that okay?"

Still looking around in awe, I nod absently. Soon after we're seated, a waitress appears. I order a vodka and soda with a twist. Edward orders just the soda and twist.

"I'm drinking alone?" I ask, raising one eyebrow at him.

"I don't usually drink alcohol for three days before a game," he answers.

"You drank a beer last Friday at dinner," I remind him.

"I was nervous," he shrugs.

"About your first start?"

He shakes his head, and then whispers his answer in my ear. "About having dinner with you."

Lifting my hand to his shoulder, I push him away slightly so I can see him. His eyes are downcast, and even in the dim light, I can tell that his face is a little red.

"Why?" I ask, struggling to understand.

"I figured I was only going to get one chance. I didn't want to screw it up."

"Edward," I exhale, sliding my hand up his neck. When he raises his eyes to meet mine, my heart seems to stop for an instant. I keep looking at him… even though the intensity of his gaze scares me. I think he's waiting for me to say something. I _should_ say something – tell him that I'm the one who almost screwed it up; I'm the one who didn't deserve another chance. Opening up to people about my feelings has never been easy for me, though.

So instead, I lean forward and kiss him… three times. I keep my lips pressed against his until the waitress sets our drinks down on the table with a thud, clearly trying to get our attention. We smile at each other as we slowly pull apart.

"Thank you," he says, turning to look at the waitress. When I shift my gaze to her, I notice how close she's standing to Edward's side. And how short her skirt is. She's going on and on about the singer who will be performing shortly while Edward listens politely – and I scowl at her. She ignores me completely, focusing all her attention and cleavage on him.

Shaking my head slightly, I take my jacket off and hang it from the back of the chair. Then I pick up my drink, sipping it as I look around. It's getting louder in here as the room fills with people, and I watch the band take their places, talking animatedly to each other. When Edward's large hand lands gently on my back, I scoot my chair toward him, wedging myself under his arm. Finally, another table signals to the chatty waitress and she walks away.

"I thought maybe she was going to steal you away," I tease, tipping my head back to look at him.

"I'm not going anywhere, Bella," he replies. The way he's looking at me – seriously but with a hint of that crooked grin I'm so fond of – takes my breath away. I don't respond other than to bury my face against his shoulder. I feel him kiss the top of my head just as the stage lights come on.

Once the music starts, Edward and I are quiet for the first few songs, but then we talk quietly, leaning close. I can't stop smiling, which usually annoys me. Tonight, though, I only feel happy. As the night goes on, we dance a few times, moving in slow circles as we hold each other tightly.

Just before midnight, he walks me to my door. After I unlock it, I turn around, staring up at him. He is incredibly good-looking, but my attraction to him isn't just physical. I want to talk to him, listen to him. I want to know everything about him.

I'm in deep, deep trouble… but right now I don't care.

"You want to come in for a while? I have decaf." I reach out and press my hand against his chest, slowly sliding it down to rest on his stomach.

"Sure."

Inside, I kick my shoes off as I lay my purse and jacket on the counter. I take the package of decaf coffee beans and two mugs from the cabinet before heading for my room. I hear him following behind me, and he laughs when he sees what I'm doing.

"Your coffee pot is beside your bed? That's brilliant."

"I know," I agree, turning to grin at him after I turn it on. "It might be the best idea I've ever had."

"My bathroom has one of those built-in counters for a coffee pot. I've been thinking of moving mine back there so I don't have to walk to the kitchen every morning," he comments.

"Do it. You won't be sorry," I laugh. "I'm kind of jealous. That would be even more perfect – to have the coffee right there in the bathroom when you're getting ready. My bathroom's too small to keep the coffee maker in there."

While the coffee brews, we stand next to the bed, talking and watching the carafe fill. I'm not sure if Edward's aware of the down-comforter-covered elephant in the room, but I am. The bed is tempting… and so is he. It would be so easy to pull him down and let myself get carried away. But when I sleep with him – because I've concluded that it _will_ happen – I want it to be purposeful, meaningful.

A few minutes later, we take our full mugs to the living room and sit down on the couch. We talk a little about my trip next week and his schedule this weekend, and I'm disappointed when I realize we might not see each other before I leave for L.A.

"You could come over Sunday night when I get back from San Francisco," he suggests, setting his empty mug down on the coffee table. I do the same before turning to him.

"It'll be so late, and I have to get up so early Monday morning," I say, sighing.

"Just for an hour?"

"I could probably be talked into it," I laugh.

"Yeah? What do I have to say?"

"Say? Nothing," I answer, smiling as I crook my finger at him.

He leans forward, kissing me several times before he rears back to look at me. His bright green eyes have darkened, and when he moves toward me again, I meet him halfway, lifting one hand to wrap around his neck. He pulls my lower lip in between his for an instant, then lets go, sweeping his tongue into my mouth. As we kiss, he digs a hand into my hair, sliding his fingers through the strands before skimming them down my back.

Craving more contact, I try to scoot closer to him, but my legs are in the way. He breaks away, grasping my waist with both hands and pulling me toward him. I let him guide me as I raise up and swing one leg across to straddle his lap.

My lips are on his again before I'm settled, kissing him passionately. When his hands slide slowly up my sides a few minutes later, a strong wave of desire courses through me, and I moan quietly into his mouth. Although I realize that I'm quickly losing the grip I had on my self-control, it feels too good to stop. And he's a great freaking kisser.

His right hand shifts to my ribcage, continuing its determined ascent. Breathless, I wrench my mouth away as he finally covers my breast. He kisses down my neck as I arch it back to give him space, gasping when he sucks on the skin below my right ear.

"God… Cullen," I whisper.

He lifts his left hand to my chest, too, squeezing gently, stroking his thumbs over my hardened nipples repeatedly. The prickling pleasure flowing through my veins spikes, and I clutch his shoulders, rocking my hips against his once. His warm breath fans my skin when he exhales in a gust into my neck. Dropping one hand to my hip, he presses himself against me, holding me still even though I try to move, too. Then, relenting, he loosens his grasp on me, and groans my name when I slide along his erection. Even through our clothes, the sensation is amazing. It's been a while since I had sex. It's been even longer since I've wanted to as much as I do right now.

We're both breathing hard when he pulls back a little, looking up at me as he reaches for the top button of my shirt. I force my eyes to stay open, locked on his, even though I'm uncomfortable. Being physically bare – at least partially – to him is scary, but it's the way he's studying me that really frightens me, making me worry that my feelings for him are on full display.

Once my shirt is unbuttoned, he lifts his hand up to my face, tracing my cheek and along my jaw. Then, moving so slowly that I'm practically squirming on his lap, his fingers ghost down my neck… my upper chest… between my breasts… down my stomach. Burying my fingers in the longer hair on top of his head, I let my eyes close, let myself savor his touch. Already, my body is attuned to his, shivering in anticipation just before he finally raises his hands to cup my breasts.

His lips follow the same path his fingers did, skimming down my neck, and then side-to-side across my collarbone. When he places kisses along the swell of my breasts, just above my bra, I inhale sharply. I feel his tongue slip underneath the lace, leaving a wet trail behind as he licks toward the center of my chest. By the time he repeats the action on the other side, I'm gripping his hair and rocking my hips against his again.

Then suddenly, though the haze of arousal, I have a flash of panic.

"You can't come on the show again," I pant. My eyes pop open and I look down at the top of his head.

Although the motion of his mouth stops instantly, it takes a few seconds for him to pull away. "What?" he asks, confused. He looks at me with a slight frown. "That's what you're thinking about?"

"Yes. I mean, no," I blurt out, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. "I mean, I can't seem to think about anything when you're around… except you. And that freaks me the hell out. And now there's going to be _this_, too. There's no way I can talk normally to you on the radio after you've seen me naked."

"I'm going to see you naked?"

Of course, that's the part of my breakdown that he heard.

"Not tonight, but I think inevitably, yes," I sigh, "which means I'm going to have to start working out more."

"You're stunning, Swan. I liked you from the first time I heard you on the radio, anyway. Your intelligence. Your sense of humor. Your nerve. It's just a bonus for me that you're beautiful on the outside, too."

"I'm still not sleeping with you tonight."

"Who said anything about sleeping?" he says mischievously. His hands are still on my breasts, and he uses his thumbs to circle my nipples.

"You're not playing fair," I exhale, resting my forehead against his.

"I didn't know the rules of the game," he replies. He moves his hands though, sliding them up to cup my neck. "Baby, relax. I won't come on the show anymore if you don't want me to, okay?"

"Okay. Fortunately, Emmett was such a jackwagon yesterday that you have an excuse to turn us down," I remark.

"Jackwagon," he chuckles. "Your dad uses that word all the time."

"Duh, Cullen. Where do you think I learned it?" I tease, smiling. "Know what else he says?"

"What?"

"Pucker up, buttercup."

"Hasn't used that one on me yet," he replies drolly as I kiss him. "Maybe he will when he finds out we're dating."

"Um, about that," I begin hesitantly, scrunching up the left side of my face. I know he'll guess what I'm going to say when he sees my expression.

"You're still determined to keep this quiet? Because of our jobs?" He looks kind of hurt, so I rush to explain.

"Our jobs and my dad's job. If things don't work out with us, it would be, at the very least, an uncomfortable situation for both of you. I don't want to put either of you in that position."

"Why do you think we won't work out?"

"I didn't say that, Edward," I insist, sliding my hands to the nape of his neck. I rub my fingers lightly along his skin. "But when's the last time you had a relationship that lasted more than a couple of months?" I pause, not continuing until he shrugs. "Ha. It's been a while, right? For me, too."

"But it wasn't like this. I think we should quit hiding."

"We're not hiding. We've been out. We're just not advertising it… or telling my dad."

"Or any of our friends."

"I don't want to be a distraction for you. Do you really want to answer questions every week about the girl who called your ass mediocre on the radio? You're just beginning your career," I explain, hoping he understands. "I also don't want anyone trying to get to you through me… or thinking I'm dating you to get something from you – an interview, money, exposure. Whatever."

"You're worried about what people will think?" he asks, still looking unhappy about my request.

"Yeah, I guess I am a little worried about what it could mean for my professional reputation. I want to be taken seriously, not dismissed as yet another commentator who dates a pro player," I confess. "But I want to have time just for us, too… without any outside interference or pressure.

"At the end of the season, though, we tell?"

"Absolutely. And any attention we get will have months to die down before training camp starts up again," I point out.

"All right. But I'd still rather be open about it now."

"You just want to win," I smile.

"Relationships are a team sport, Bella," he responds. "Either we both win or we both lose."

Leaning forward, I rest my head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms tightly around my back.

"I like to win," I mumble against his shirt.

"Me, too, baby," he says, turning to kiss the side of my head. "And I think that gives us a pretty good shot."

Even though I can't admit it out loud – even though the idea terrifies me – I have to agree.


	8. Forward Progress

**A/N: Well, it's the end of another NFL season, which means I'll be in mourning a little. :) I don't have a favorite team for the big game, but it should be a good one.**

**The new year is off to a bit of a rocky start. Year-end at work has meant some extra hours had to be put in. Traveling husband and busy kids keep me hopping the rest of the time. Our beloved, perfectly round, mini Dachshund, affectionately known as Fat Max, passed away. He went to live with Grandma about three years ago when I went back to work full-time, and lived happily ever after, eating pancakes and fried eggs most mornings because he just didn't seem to like the dog food (according to Grandma). RIP, Fat Max. We love you.  
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**Big thanks to my great friend Littlecat358 for doing double duty as a beta and therapist. :) She knows how I feel about her. Also, thanks to two more great friends for prereading: Michelle0526 (xoxo) and Tennesseelamb (thanks for pointing out things I miss and questioning me). Adore you both.  
**

**I truly appreciate the favorites and follows and reviews. They mean so much to me. And thanks to the TLS girls for including me on the Fic of the Week poll. :)  
**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.  
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* * *

Sunday night, Edward sends me a text message soon after he returns from San Francisco, reminding me that I said I'd come over. I reply that I didn't forget, and when I get to his building forty-five minutes later, he's standing outside, waiting for me as promised. I park at the curb just up the block, glancing in the side mirror to watch him walk toward my truck. He opens the passenger door as I pull the key from the ignition.

"Hey."

"Hey, Cullen," I answer softly, scooting across the seat. I hate the sad look on his face. "You played great today."

Shrugging one shoulder, he holds a hand toward me to help me out of the truck. "Still lost."

As soon as I'm standing on the sidewalk, I raise up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck. I'm tempted to share the breakdown I've already done on his stats from this afternoon. Both his completion percentage and total yards were higher than last week. I want to tell him how impressed I am that he stayed calm in the pocket and spread the ball around, connecting with four different receivers despite the constant pressure from the Niners' defense. I want him to know that I leapt up from my couch, yelling and clapping, when he scrambled for twelve yards and a first down in the third quarter. But I don't think any of that will make him feel better right now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper instead, kissing the side of his neck where my face is buried. "I brought you chocolate pie."

I'm rewarded with a quiet chuckle as his arms tighten around my back. We stand still for another moment before he sighs heavily and pulls away.

Upstairs, we sit on stools at the kitchen counter while he eats the enormous piece of pie, but his mood doesn't really improve. I sip a glass of white wine and tell him funny stories. He doesn't laugh. I complain about my upcoming trip to Los Angeles. He doesn't comment. I reach for him several times, rubbing his back, squeezing his bicep, resting my hand on his thigh. He doesn't react… at all.

Quickly losing faith that I can pull him out of this depression, I finish my wine, and then take my glass and Edward's plate to the sink. While I'm rinsing them and wondering if I should leave, he startles me by sliding his arms around my waist from behind.

"Sorry, legs. I know I'm shitty company," he mutters against the top of my head. "I just can't stop thinking about that last drive. Everything seemed to collapse in the fourth quarter."

"Edward, it wasn't you. You were playing well," I reply, shutting off the water. I pick up the towel laying beside the sink and dry my hands, then turn around in his arms. "Thompson let the weak-side A gap widen two downs in a row, so you had almost no time to let the play develop before you were forced to throw. And, you know, you got sacked that second time when the pass rusher got past your protection."

"I have a vague recollection," he answers with a wry smile. I'm sure he remembers it vividly; it was a pretty hard hit, resulting in Cullen lying flat on his back in the grass. "Thompson had trouble handling that tackle all afternoon."

"Yeah, he did. You're probably lucky he kept the gap closed for the first three quarters."

"It's not any one player's fault, though. We missed a couple of other opportunities, too."

"I know that, Cullen," I agree, winding my arms around his neck. Before I can stop myself, I spit out a couple of stats – wanting him to take pride in his progress. "I'm just pointing out that the offense showed improvement over last week, regardless of the final score. Your completion percentage climbed above sixty percent, and you were eleventh in the league today in total QBR."

"Still lost," he states morosely, echoing his earlier words.

"The Niners' D-Line dominated the second half and rushed you almost every play," I nod, realizing my sympathetic pep talk isn't helping; he needs a dose of reality to snap out of it. "Whitlock couldn't get open and your deep receivers couldn't outrun their corners. But you only lost by three points to a really good team. You guys will learn from what happened today and figure out what adjustments to make. So pull it together, get your head in the game that's coming up next week and quit whining about the game that's already in the books."

He doesn't reply, but he's smiling softly despite the semi-sharp tone I just used to scold him. He lifts one hand to push some of my hair behind my left ear and rests his fingers against my neck.

"What?" I huff, rolling my eyes. I let my hands slide down his chest and hang limply at my sides. "You're not gonna say you're impressed that I can talk football, are you?"

"No," he frowns. "I knew you could talk football, Swan."

"That's a relief," I mutter with faux exasperation.

"I _didn't_ know that you'd serve me consolation pie along with a swift ass-kicking when I needed it," he continues. Under his intense gaze, it's becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me to stand here, but I force myself to keep looking at him. "Only one other woman has ever understood me this way."

The jealousy that immediately floods my veins is unexpected. It's not an emotion that I've often been affected by when it comes to men, but I recognize the clench of my stomach, the way my spine stiffens. My voice stays even, though, not betraying me as I say the name of the girl Cullen dated all through college. The last girl he had a serious relationship with, according to him. "Tanya?"

He shakes his head once. "No. My gran."

Quickly ducking under his raised arm, I twist away to lean against the kitchen island behind him, surprised again at the mixture of emotions coursing through me. I'm relieved… and confused… and not entirely flattered by what he said. "I remind you of your grandmother?"

"Yeah, in some ways." I cross my arms over my chest and raise one eyebrow at him when he turns around to look at me. His face reddens a bit, which I know means he's embarrassed, but he always expresses himself in spite of it. It's disarming. It's appealing. It's freaking hot. "She was tough and independent. Smart. Funny as hell. And always called me on my shit." While he's talking, he takes two slow, deliberate steps toward me, and then traps me between his arms by placing his palms on the counter behind me. He leans down so we're face-to-face, his brilliant, green eyes moving side to side as he searches mine. "She also had a heart of gold. I was wrapped around that woman's little finger. I would have done anything to make her happy."

As I listen to his explanation, I feel my irritation – and my guard – slipping away. My heart flutters anxiously, making my chest feel tight. My stomach drops, and I wrap one arm across my waist, trying to calm the butterflies. Unable to meet his piercing stare any longer, I squeeze my eyes shut and wrinkle my nose, hiding from him… hiding from myself, maybe, and wishing that I wasn't partially terrified by him – by _us_.

I feel the puff of air on my face as Cullen chuckles. "You're adorable."

"Shut up," I demand quietly. When he repeats himself, I grit my teeth and do the same. "_Shut up, Cullen_."

"Make me."

Before he's finished saying the taunting words, I've opened my eyes. I reach for him, lifting one hand to the back of his head and curling the fingers of my other hand into the front of his t-shirt. He comes willingly when I pull him forward, smirking slightly. And I can't help but return the smug smile, even as I realize he purposely challenged me in a way he knows I can't resist.

His lips are soft and yielding at first, matching every movement of mine. After a moment, I slide my hand to the top of his head, gripping the longer hair there between my fingers. The kiss rapidly turns urgent then; our mouths colliding over and over until my knees are weak, but my desire for him is strong.

He breaks away as he moves his hands to span the sides of my waist, lifting me up to sit on the counter. Again, I pull him toward me, making room for him to stand between my legs.

"Cullen," I whisper just before his lips capture mine again. He hmms into my mouth, digging one hand into my hair. Although I know it's not smart, I hook my feet around his thighs and scoot to the edge of the counter, pressing myself against him. It feels so good that I don't want to stop… so I don't.

When he starts to slide the hand on my waist upward, I come to my senses. During the drive here, I promised myself that I wouldn't let things go even _this_ far tonight, but I have an alarming lack of self-control around him. I realize, though, that I can't keep having these heated make-out sessions and expect to resist sleeping with him.

It _is_ too soon to sleep with him, right? I've never been one of those girls who hops into bed with every guy she's attracted to. Plus, I'm already overwhelmed by my feelings for Cullen and rattled by the way he constantly lurks in the back of my mind, no matter what I'm doing. Adding sex to the mix this quickly would only increase the probability of a complete freak out.

I'm suddenly glad that I'll be gone most of the week. I think I need a little space… a little perspective.

I put my hand on his forearm, pushing firmly enough that he understands. Instead of pulling away or being angry, though, Cullen takes it in stride, shifting his arm and linking our fingers together. He never stops kissing me, which, of course, only makes me want him more.

Eventually, though, the grip my other fingers still have on his hair loosens, and I let my hand drop gently to his shoulder. He slows the movement of his lips, and then rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily.

"Stay a little while longer?"

"I shouldn't," I hedge, keeping my eyes closed. I won't be able to refuse if I have to look at him.

"We won't see each other again until Friday night," he reminds me. I can't decide if I'm more relieved or unhappy about that fact right now, so I deflect.

"I'll be the one in the shitty mood then," I grumble, opening my eyes. "I can't believe I have to spend most of the week dealing with Newton's jackwagon antics sixteen hours a day."

He chuckles, lifting our joined hands to his mouth to kiss my fingers. "Baby, you seem to handle Newton just fine."

Leaning back, I meet his gaze, swallowing loudly as he brushes his lips across my knuckles again. My willpower is no match for his charm. "I'll hang around a little longer, but I can't keep sitting… like this."

His quick grin tells me that he considers this a win, and he leans in to peck my lips tenderly as he picks me up and sets me on my feet. We move to the living room and sit on the couch, talking for another hour. He keeps his hands on me and leans in often to kiss my lips or forehead, but he never tries anything else.

After I tell him for the third time that I have to go, we ride down in the elevator holding hands. When we exit, the security guard looks up from the newspaper he's reading at his desk.

"Evening, Mr. Cullen," he greets. I've seen this guard before, but he's not the one who was here a couple of hours ago when I arrived. "Miss."

"Chris, I want to introduce you to my friend, Miss Swan," Edward says. He lets go of my hand, and I shake hands with Chris. "You can let her up to my apartment anytime."

"Of course, Mr. Cullen," he smiles.

"You're in trouble now," I tease while we walk up the sidewalk to my truck. "I can get into your place when you're not even here." I would never invade Cullen's privacy that way and I think he knows that, but joking around is the best diversion to avoid thinking about the next five days. I don't like the way my heart suddenly aches at the thought of not seeing him for so long.

"I don't have anything to hide from you, Bella," he says quietly, standing behind me as I unlock the passenger door of my truck. Crap. Closing my eyes, I let my shoulders slump, disappointed by my reticence. I wish I had the courage to declare myself the way he does. I wish I could tell him that I don't want to go… that I'll miss him. But I can't get myself to say the words.

"Well, have a good week." I cringe inwardly when I hear how inadequate my comment sounds after what he just said.

"Text me when you get home."

"Okay," I mumble, aware that I'm responsible for the detachment in his voice. Guilty, I turn to him and wrap my arms around his waist, but don't look at his face. Although he puts his arms around me, too, neither of us clutches the other as tightly as we did upstairs just a few minutes ago. Closing my eyes, I press my nose into his shirt, inhaling deeply before I let go and get inside the cab of the truck. "See ya."

When I hear him sigh, my already-shaky defense cracks a little more, stopping me from sliding further across the bench seat. I know I constantly give him mixed signals – I'm hot for him, then I'm skittish. I crave being close to him, but I'm unnerved by his presence and cut out. He must be frustrated as hell with me. _I'm _frustrated as hell with me. Twisting my head to the right, I finally look at him, crooking my finger until he bends down.

"Yeah?" he asks, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I'll call you Tuesday night from L.A. You'll be home then, right?"

"I'll be home," he nods. My favorite, crooked smile slowly appears on his face as he leans farther inside the truck. "I'll be listening tomorrow morning. Don't go easy on me, Swan. Tell it like it is."

"I will." Reaching up, I place my palm against his cheek as I kiss him. And then kiss him again. "I will, Cullen."

* * *

"Clothes. Shoes. Toothbrush. Makeup. What am I forgetting?" I mumble. I go through my mental checklist one last time, and then turn off my bedroom light, rolling my suitcase along behind me as I walk to the kitchen. I started the dishwasher several minutes ago. My laptop bag is packed. Jessica is going to pick up my mail. I think I'm ready – and it's only 4:50 a.m.

"I'm gonna be early and freaking Newton will have to eat his freaking words," I mutter as soon as I'm inside the descending elevator. Recalling what he said yesterday, snidely insinuating that I'd be late this morning because "it takes girls forever to pack", I become incensed all over again.

When the doors open on the main floor, I stride quickly through the bright lobby, and then out the door into the dark morning. Grateful that – for once – I paid attention to where I parked last night, I turn right and head up the sidewalk. I'm so intent on reaching my truck that I take several steps before I notice that someone is leaning against the bed of it. A big someone.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I come to a dead stop. Oh, God. Oh, shit. I'm not usually this stupid. I'm careful and alert most mornings when I exit my building, knowing that the street is mostly deserted at this hour. Without taking my eyes off the hat-wearing, shadowy figure, I try to remember how far I've walked… can I make it back inside my building before the guy could get to me?

When he pushes off my truck and takes a step toward me, I start to back up.

"Legs, it's me."

Recognizing his voice, my relief is immediate. I smile widely while I blink several times, trying to see him more clearly in the faint light. Walking forward again, my eyes finally adjust enough to see that he's wearing my Mariners hat and a Northwestern sweatshirt. And he's holding a big cup of coffee.

"What are you doing here?" I ask incredulously.

"I wanted to tell you goodbye in person," he says, shrugging one shoulder. When I stop in front of him, he holds the lidded cup toward me. "And I know from experience how shitty the coffee in your lounge is."

"Thanks, Cullen."

"You're welcome. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the guy at Starbucks."

"You asked him what?" I lift the cup to my lips and blow through the little hole to cool it off.

"What most guys get for their girlfriends."

My eyes flit from the plastic lid of the coffee cup up to his face. Did he just imply that I'm his girlfriend? Yeah, I think he did, but I push that thought aside for a second, distracted by his expression. His eyes are downcast and I swear he's doing that cute, blushing thing again. Staring at his long eyelashes and darkening cheeks, I feel my body react – racing heart, tingling spine. I want to kiss him, but I also want to hear more about the G word, so I force myself to stand still.

"What was the answer?"

"He said his girlfriend's favorite is the vanilla latte." He swallows and raises his eyes to meet mine.

"So, what did you get me?" I smirk and tilt my head to the side slightly.

The left side of his lips curls upward before he speaks. "Vanilla latte."

"Is that right?" I take a sip of the drink without moving my eyes from his. "And is that supposed to be a hint?"

"No," he replies. "The part where I got up at four o'clock in the morning to see you before you leave town is the hint."

"Good hint," I nod. "Are you gonna kiss me goodbye or not?"

"Yeah," he laughs, leaning down to press his mouth to mine. He tastes of coffee, too, and I moan softly as our tongues slide together. I wrap my free hand around his neck, scraping my nails lightly across his skin. He brushes his fingers across my cheek, wrapping his other arm around my waist while our lips meet over and over.

"Time?" I beg breathlessly, pulling away after a moment. He takes his phone from his pocket to look at it.

"Straight up five."

"Then I've got three minutes. Don't stop."

He pulls me closer as he kisses me again, dropping his hand to the top of my ass. Aroused, I press myself against him, wishing we weren't standing on the sidewalk… wishing I didn't have to be at work in twenty-five minutes… wishing I wasn't so freaking crazy that I'd stopped myself from sleeping with him two nights ago.

"I gotta go," I murmur against his lips. He pulls his mouth away, hugging me and letting me burrow into his chest.

"I know. Get in the truck. I'll get your bags," he replies. He holds me tighter for an instant before he releases me, taking the strap of my laptop case from my shoulder as I step back. I start the truck as he sets my laptop bag on the passenger side of the seat and my suitcase on the floorboard. "All set. See you Friday. Call me when you can."

Nodding, I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and reach my hand toward him. "I'll call. Bye, Cullen." He squeezes my fingers before pulling away and shutting the door.

* * *

Sighing, I walk into the lounge at the station, looking around in surprise as I realize I'm the first one in here. After finishing my coffee during the drive, I'm not really thirsty, but I walk to the refrigerator and get a bottle of water anyway.

Thinking about Cullen, I smile in spite of my melancholy mood. It's been an eventful day already and it's not even light outside yet. The coffee, the kissing, the boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. What a strange label. Almost as strange as the prickling sensation that zips up the back of my neck every time I think of it. I didn't know I would like it this much… and I didn't know I would like vanilla lattes either.

"Morning, Swan," Emmett calls from behind me.

"Hey, Ehhhh–," I answer as I turn around. I burst out laughing, making it hard to speak. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I got a spray tan," he replies defensively.

"Dude, you're _orange_, not tan," I say, trying ineffectually to control my giggles.

"I wanted to fit in down in SoCal," he pouts.

"Well, if we run into those kids from _Jersey Shore _or any Oompa Loompas, you'll be a perfect match."

"It's probably just the fluorescent lights in here," he grumbles, walking toward the mirror near the door. "It will look better in the natural light."

"No type of light is going to make that color look natural," I tease, moving to stand beside him at the mirror. Overcome with another fit of laughter, I cover my mouth with my hand as I watch him examine his reflection.

"Bella, you'll have to watch that tendency you have to laugh directly into the microphone this week," Newton barks, coming into the lounge. "We won't have wind screens on any of the remote mics."

"I'll give it a shot," I sneer, turning to glare at him. "You'll have to watch that tendency you have to be a jack–."

Emmett interrupts, simultaneously hooking his arm around my neck from behind to shut me up. "Bella and I have both done out-of-town remotes before, Newton. Everything will run like clockwork."

"Good. We need to leave the station at noon to catch our flight," he says, motioning for us to sit down at the table. Emmett whispers something to me about not instigating any new battles before he lets go. Once we're seated, Newton hands us the rundown sheet for today's show, going over it quickly before turning to the schedule for the rest of the week. "Tomorrow, you'll take batting practice with the Mariners, and we have a good lineup of interviews with both Mariners and Angels players while we're in L.A. Remember, the Mariners will have to win two out of three this week to maintain the top spot in the AL West."

Rolling my eyes at Newton's tendency to repeatedly tell us things we already know, I hide my expression by looking down at the paper he gave us. He continues yammering, but I'm only half-listening. Cullen has invaded my thoughts again. Although I'm pleased that he came to see me this morning, I'm also uneasy about the way I reacted to leaving him.

Frowning, I rest my elbow on the table and prop my chin in my hand. I pick up the pen laying on the table with my other hand and doodle stars across the top of my paper as I try to tune back in to Newton's speech. He's talking about the Mariners games now. Yes, we know the game schedule this week: Night games Wednesday and Thursday; afternoon game Friday. Yes, we know we'll have to be in the broadcast booth for a portion of each game.

Bored by his recap, I can't help but let my mind drift back to what happened when I got into my truck this morning and looked at Cullen standing on the sidewalk. I felt like I was going to cry.

I've never really been a crier. I don't get teary-eyed over sappy commercials or sad movies or touching news stories. In fact, I don't remember crying since I helped my dad and Sue clean out Grandma Swan's house after she died. That was a little over three years ago. The last time I got weepy over a _guy_ was… I think Brett O'Leary during junior year of high school. I wonder what that says about the guys I've dated since then. I wonder what it says about me.

And what the hell does it say about my feelings for Cullen?

Emmett nudges me with his elbow to get my attention. "Yo, Bella. We're on in six minutes. You ready to head into the studio?"

"Yeah," I reply, grateful he interrupted my train of thought before I had to answer that last question. Turning toward him, I'm unable to stop the quiet chuckle that escapes when I look at his tinted face. He grins back at me. "Ready."

* * *

Soon after the show is over, I walk to Kate's office to discuss the contract I was offered two weeks ago. She and Charlotte listen to my concerns and share some of their own. Eventually, we agree to change the non-compete clause from a one-year to an eight-month period. They also promise to waive the clause if I'm laid-off from the station, but are more resistant on the subject of termination.

"Bella, I'm sure you remember the issue we had a couple of years ago with an employee who tried to get himself fired in order to nullify a non-compete clause," Kate advises. "I'm not willing to completely remove the involuntary portion of the one in your contract. In fact, our father has insisted that it be in all new contracts we enter into with on-air talent."

Figures. One jackwagon – in this case, a guy who wanted to accept a job at KSEA – ruins it for everyone else. He was successful, engaging in such horrible workplace behavior that KSST had to let him go. He had his own morning show on the air for our biggest competitor within a week.

"But you have my word that we'll be fair in our dealings with you, Bella, even if it involves termination," she continues. "Neither Charlotte nor I would hold you to terms that would impede your career without cause."

I believe her, but I'd prefer to have it in writing. Since it doesn't sound like they're willing to go that far, I have to decide what I can live with.

"I'll accept the terms we've agreed on today," I concede after a moment. Kate's assistant makes the changes to the contract language and I sign the contract, pleased for the most part with my new deal.

I spend the rest of the morning in Riley's office brushing up on baseball stats. I interrupt him several times to whine about Newton. In return, he bitches about Wyatt, the guy who's filling in for me in the afternoons.

"Bella, he has no personality. It's like I'm doing the show alone," he whispers across his desk. Honestly, that's been my opinion when I've listened to them, but I assumed I was judging Wyatt too harshly because I've never really liked him… plus, he's sitting in _my_ co-host seat. "I think we now know why he's been on overnights for two years."

"I'm sorry. I feel like I've abandoned our show," I lament. "How are the Arbitron numbers?"

"They're good. We haven't had much fall off."

"That's because of you," I nod sincerely. Riley's knowledge is unsurpassed and he seems to have a sixth sense about what listeners like to hear.

"Yeah, well, just don't get too comfortable on the ass-crack shift," he teases. "You _are_ coming back to afternoons eventually, aren't you?

"Far as I know," I shrug.

Emmett knocks on the open door and steps inside the small office. "Newton offered us press passes for the Seahawks game Sunday. You guys in?" he asks. As I listen to the two of them debate what changes Coach Erickson should make, I breathe deeply, trying to slow my racing heart.

When Emmett presses me for an answer, I nod and shrug nonchalantly, pretending to be engrossed in what I'm reading on my phone. Actually, I'm not pretending… Cullen just sent me a text asking me to come over Friday night when I get back from Los Angeles. And then another asking how my meeting with Charlotte and Kate went. I'm impressed he remembers – I mentioned the meeting the other night, but we haven't spoken of it since. "Uh, whatever. I'll go if you guys are going."

"Cool. I'll get them," he responds. "Hey, Bella, we're leaving in ten minutes."

"Okay," I nod. I take another deep breath and exhale quietly as I reply to Cullen, feeling that lump form in my throat again. "Okay."

* * *

Surprisingly, the trip to L.A. goes off without a hitch. Well, without a hitch for the show. Newton still irritates the crap out of me. Emmett and I have a good time, though; batting with the Mariners, taking short trips to Disneyland and the beach. We also attend the games, watching the Mariners lose Wednesday, but win Thursday. Friday afternoon's game is a nail-biter. Emmett and I both spring to our feet when the Mariners' young, star pitcher strikes out the last Angels batter. Mariners win.

Two hours later, our plane takes off for Seattle. Happy to be heading back to Seattle, I'm smiling as I watch the palm trees get smaller and smaller.

Emmett leans across me to look out the window, sighing. "Wish we could stay in L.A. for the weekend."

I don't. But since I don't want to explain why, I answer noncommittally. "Hmm."

"I want to see how the Seahawks play Sunday, though," he continues, settling back in his seat and reclining. "It seemed like Cullen was about to turn a corner last week until the fourth quarter."

"Hmm."

I agree with his evaluation, but I've tried to be more subtle this week about my admiration for Cullen. I was even a little bit critical of him last Monday morning as Emmett and I dissected the Seahawks loss. Cullen still said I was too easy on him, though.

"I think it might actually work out with him," he comments, not waiting for me to reply before he goes on. "But were you paying attention to the sound bites I played this morning? Did you hear what he said yesterday after practice?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you know what he meant when he said he was looking forward to today?"

"Nope."

"Don't you think that was a strange response? When the reporter asked if he was looking forward to Sunday and he said, 'I'm looking forward to tomorrow'?" he continues. Finally glancing away from the window, I turn to look at him. His eyes are closed, his brows knit together on his odd-colored face. "Do you think he was trying to be funny? Or is he some sort of carpe diem, take-nothing-in-life-for-granted wacko? Or are they having a short practice today or something?"

"Not sure," I answer honestly, somewhat amused by Emmett's fierce pursuit of the meaning behind Cullen's words. I don't know for certain why he said he was looking forward to today, but I hope it had something to do with me.

"Maybe Newton can get him on the show next week."

I fake a laugh even though I panic at his suggestion. "Why? So you can hijack the interview with a bunch of crankypants questions like you did last week?"

"No," he says sullenly, dragging the syllable out. "I'll apologize for the way I acted before."

"What if he doesn't forgive you?"

"Swan, no one, male _or_ female, can resist _this_," he brags, opening his eyes and smiling at me. His dimples make deep depressions in his cheeks as he waves his hand up and down his body. "Two hundred pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal."

My laughter is so loud that Newton peeks over the top of his seat in front of us to see what the commotion is about. He gives me a stern look and hisses my name, which makes it even more difficult to get myself under control. Eventually, however, I manage to keep it quiet, and Emmett falls asleep.

I grab his copy of _Sports Illustrated_ from the seat pocket in front of him, immediately flipping to the small blurb on Cullen's performance last week. I don't even really read it; I just trace my finger across his name again and again, thinking of him. We talked on the phone for over an hour every night this week. I rest my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes as I remember part of our conversation last night.

"_I've been thinking about what you said last Friday," he began._

"_You mean when I said I couldn't talk to you on the air after you see me naked?" I joked._

"_No," he chuckled. "The part where you worried what your peers will think about us."_

"_Why were you thinking about that?"_

"_I heard Emmett giving you shit on the air, accusing you of flirting with the Mariners pitcher at batting practice."_

"_I wasn't flirting," I said insistently, ready to defend myself. "Emmett was just mad because I got a hit off the pitcher and he didn't."_

"_I believe you, Swan. But I get what you meant now. They do treat you differently because you're a woman. Emmett never would have said those things about a male colleague," he replied, sounding a little pissed off on my behalf. "I understand why you want to wait to go public with our relationship. I won't pressure you about it anymore. We'll wait until the season's over."_

_Blowing out a deep breath, I smiled into the phone. "Team sport?"_

"_Team sport." He let the words hang in the silence for a beat before he spoke again. "Bella?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"Now _I'm thinking about the part where I get to see you naked."_

I don't open my eyes as I clutch the magazine to my chest. I doze off still thinking about him… and still smiling.

* * *

As soon as we land in Seattle, I power on my phone, planning to text Cullen. I groan quietly when I see the red battery in the top right corner – three percent. Crap. I hurriedly begin to type the message I'm supposed to send him, letting him know I'll be at his apartment in about an hour. I dismiss two incoming texts from my mom and hear my email alert tone as the phone downloads new messages.

Quickly scanning the words I typed, my finger hovers over the "Send" button. Before I can press it, though, my home screen appears for a millisecond, followed by that spinning, white circle of death.

"Son of a buck," I mutter as the screen goes black.

"Want to use mine?" Emmett offers as he stands to deplane. I start to reach for it, but then realize I can't use his phone to text a player that he doesn't know I'm having a sort-of-secret relationship with.

"No, thanks. I'll just wait."

I'm jittery as we wait for our bags, get a cab back to the studio, and get in our separate cars. Newton manages to compliment Emmett and me on a good week of remote shows before he leaves. Emmett promises to text me tomorrow about meeting for breakfast before the Seahawks game Sunday, and I try not to act like I'm in a huge rush as I answer him over my shoulder while climbing into my truck… but I'm in a huge rush.

During the drive to Cullen's building, I chew almost constantly on my lip. Is this too impulsive? Did I think it through enough? Is it normal to abandon every principle of behavior I set for myself? Is Cullen really worth all this?

In my head, I ignore every question except the last. _Yeah. I think he might be._

His street is packed with cars, and I have to park almost a block away from his building. I walk briskly up the sidewalk, my footsteps matching the pounding beat of my heart. By the time I open the door into the lobby, I can hardly breathe.

"Good evening, Miss Swan." Chris is sitting at the guard desk, smiling at me as I approach.

"Hi. Can you call upstairs for me? My cell phone battery ran down."

"Mr. Cullen said I could let you in anytime, remember? I'll call him once you're on your way." He comes out from behind the desk, pulling keys from his pocket.

"Thanks, Chris," I say softly, smiling at him as he inserts the key to light up the penthouse floor button. He steps off the elevator with a wave.

"Have a nice night."

As the elevator ascends, I nervously unwrap a stick of gum and chew it, releasing the cinnamon flavor. Realizing that I didn't even check my reflection in the visor mirror before I got out of the truck, I run my fingers through my hair, hoping it doesn't look awful. I pull a tube of lip gloss from my purse, but decide against applying it and put it away again.

When I reach the top floor, I press both hands to my stomach to calm my nerves, walking into the outer hallway, and then immediately through the open double doors of the apartment. Just inside the doorway, I pause to lay my purse on the entryway table while I kick off my flats under the chair beside it.

"Legs? Why didn't you text me when you got back? Or call me?"

Swallowing my gum, I turn toward his voice. He's coming around the corner from the kitchen, wearing jeans and a red t-shirt, smiling crookedly. He looks happy to see me… and he looks beautiful. Immediately, I feel relief, happiness, desire wash over me. And I know I'm making the right decision.

"Phone's dead," I breathe, rushing toward him like I haven't seen him for three months instead of three days. "Chris let me upstairs."

"I know. _He_ called me," he teases as my face breaks into a smile.

After three more steps, I reach him and lift my hands to frame his face. He leans down to me, and I have a fleeting thought that he must have shaved this afternoon after practice – his jaw is smooth beneath my fingers. But as soon as our lips meet, I'm only aware of his mouth moving with mine, his tongue sliding along mine. I don't know how many minutes tick by while we stand in his foyer kissing… enough to make me even more eager for him.

Letting my hands slide slowly down his neck and chest, I feel his abs contract as I trace my fingers lightly over them. I twist my mouth away and step back slightly, reaching for the bottom of his shirt. He helps pull it off, and I take another tiny step backward, staring, open-mouthed, at his bare torso. Although I knew he was hiding a chiseled body under his clothes, I wasn't prepared for exactly how perfect it is.

"Oh, crap, Cullen. That's ridiculous," I mumble, shaking my head distractedly. Slowly, my eyes roam up until they reach his face again. "Why do you ever wear a shirt?"

I expect him to laugh; he doesn't. Instead, he closes the distance between us and grasps the sides of my t-shirt, bunching the material in his hands as he quickly lifts it over my head. He keeps his eyes glued to mine until my shirt hits the floor, and then lowers this gaze to my chest.

"Why do _you_ ever wear a shirt?" he asks, his voice low and hoarse. "You're gorgeous."

He bends down, but I back away, grabbing his hands to pull him with me into the dark hallway leading to the bedrooms. He speeds up, catching me around the waist and crashing his lips to mine. We compete for arm position, each of us exploring the other's bare skin while we kiss. When I begin to walk backward again, he follows for several steps before stopping our progress and breaking away.

"Swan, I'm only going to ask once if you're sure," he says, his chest heaving.

"Cullen, I'm only going to answer once that I am." My voice is soft and breathless, but confident. "I want this… want you."

"I missed you," he murmurs, putting his mouth on mine once more. His hands skim down my back and ass, and then curl around my upper thighs as he lifts me. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I moan into his mouth as he pulls my legs around his waist and walks forward.

I feel him shift his hands, using one to hold me in place while the other trails up my back to unhook my bra. Once it's loose, I pull my arms free one at a time, and then drop the lacy scrap of material to the floor as I press my bare chest to his.

Inside the door of his bedroom, he stops, bracing me against the wall while he flips the light switch. Wrenching my mouth away, I open my eyes, letting my head drop back slightly so I can look up. The lights he turned on are dim and hidden between the levels of the stepped ceiling, giving the room a soft, candlelight-like glow.

I try to look around his room, but my eyes slide closed as he kisses down my neck. "Oh, God, Cullen."

I'm aware that he carries me across the room, and I feel him reach down, hear the rustle of the covers as he yanks them down.

"Hang on to me," he orders, climbing onto the bed while I clutch him. He tips me backward gently, settling between my legs as I lie down. I open my eyes, focusing first on his chest, and then letting my gaze slide up to meet his. His fingers graze my cheek as he stares intently at me. "I'm crazy about you, Swan."

His words cause an immediate physical and emotional reaction, but since I'm nowhere near ready to make my own verbal declaration, I stretch up to kiss him, pulling him down with me when I lie back on the pillow. He rocks his hips against me several times, and then moves his lips down my neck to my chest. His mouth covers my breast, and he uses his tongue to circle my nipple until I arch my back, needing more. Whimpering softly, I buck underneath him when he finally sucks strongly. He switches to the other side after a moment, reaching between my legs at the same time.

Watching him through half-closed eyes, I try to memorize everything – the cool, smooth sheet against my back, his hot breath on my skin, the insistent pressure of his fingers as they tease me through the material of my khaki shorts. Over and over, he scrapes my nipple lightly with his teeth, then soothes with his tongue before pulling forcefully on my flesh.

"Ahhhh," I sigh, turning my head to the side. I study the muscles of the arm he's leaning on. Wrapping my hand around his forearm, I twist sideways to press my lips against his skin.

"Bella," he exhales, kissing the spot between my breasts.

Pleasure and desperation race through me as I look down to find him staring back at me. Quickly, he scoots up to kiss me, and I reach for the button of his jeans, too impatient to wait any longer. After a minute of frantic fumbling, his pants and boxers, along with my shorts and underwear, have been tossed off the bed and he's positioned right where I want him.

"Birth control?" he asks. His normally-bright green eyes are dark with desire.

"Pill. And I'm tested," I pant.

"I'm tested, too," he answers.

He lowers his lips to mine as he pushes inside, taking his time. I feel my body adjusting as he presses all the way in and holds still. We breathe heavily into each other's mouths, still kissing, neither of us moving until I tilt my hips up slightly. With a quiet groan, he slowly pulls almost all the way out, then slides back inside.

Inhaling sharply, I drag my lips away. "Oh, my God, Cullen. Do that again."

He does – twice – while nipping along my jaw. Skimming my nails down his back, I urge him forward each time.

"Baby," he says, lifting up to look at me. "I don't think I can go that slow anymore."

"Good," I whisper, shifting one hand to cradle his face. He smiles softly and I smile back before our lips meet again.

We move together then, and soon I feel the pressure building. Placing his palms beside my head, he pushes up, thrusting more forcefully. My knees dig into his ribcage as he speeds up. Wanting something to hold on to, I try to slide my hands under his on the bed. Without slowing at all, he drops to his elbows, lacing his fingers with mine. He drives into me, kissing me until I pull away.

"Cullen… Cullen," I whisper, gripping his hands tightly. My mouth falls open as I come, pleasure radiating through me in waves. He buries his face in my neck, pushing our hands above my head as he moves faster, and then I feel him release, too.

He presses soft kisses against my neck while we lie in silence, catching our breath. We're still holding hands above my head, and even though my shoulders are starting to ache a little, I'm too content to care.

"Am I crushing you?" he murmurs.

"No. Don't move yet."

He hums into my skin, tickling me. When I shiver, he does it again, chuckling softly when I react the same way. After a minute, he shifts to lie on his side, facing me, and I roll to my side, too. He pulls the sheet over us and we scoot together to lie intertwined, smiling at each other.

"That certainly helps make up for not seeing you since Tuesday," he remarks, his eyes shining with laughter.

"Maybe I should go out of town again," I tease.

"No," he groans, holding me tightly against his chest. We both chuckle, and then lie silently for another moment before he speaks. "Are you hungry? I was planning on feeding you when you got here."

"Feeding me?" I ask, tipping my head back and lifting one eyebrow at him.

"I didn't figure you'd get dinner on the plane."

"I didn't," I confirm. "But I was at the ballpark with Emmett all day. And when you're at the ballpark with Emmett, you eat. _A lot_."

"What did you eat?" he asks, amused.

"I'm too ashamed to say," I claim. After a minute of prodding, I finally give in. "A hot dog. Nachos. One of those frozen chocolate malts that comes with a wooden spoon. Peanuts – in the shell."

"That's not much."

"I wasn't done," I smirk. "Kettle corn. Cotton Candy. A churro. Sunflower seeds. A slice of pepperoni, but I really only ate the crust. Oh, and I had a beer."

By the time I'm finished, he's laughing heartily. "No wonder you're not hungry. Doesn't that make your stomach hurt?"

"Nope. When you eat with Emmett, you really only get about two bites of everything," I smile. "Except the kettle corn. I ate the whole bag of that. I never share it, for future reference."

"Noted. You're cute as hell, Swan."

"Oh, God. Don't say stuff like that," I complain, pulling the sheet over my face to hide my embarrassment.

"Are you thirsty?" he asks. Still under the covers, I nod, smiling when he pulls them away enough to peek at my face. He presses his lips against my forehead. "Be right back."

Cautiously, I fold the sheet down when I feel him scoot away. He's sitting on the side of the bed, leaning forward to pull on his boxers. Propping my head on my bent arm, I study the muscles of his back, and then smirk when he stands and I briefly see the bare ass that created this whole damn whirlwind I'm living in. With a silent sigh, I watch him walk out of the room. I could stare at him all night… all day.

After he's gone, I sit up to look around, clutching the sheet to my chest. Reaching my left hand down, I slide it across the warm spot where he was just lying as I glance through the doorway on that side of the room. That must be the bathroom – I can't really see inside since the light isn't on, but the floor changes from dark wood to dark tile at the threshold.

Turning my head, I scan the rest of the room – the art on the walls, the flat screen hanging on the wall opposite the bed, the floor-to-ceiling curtains covering most of the wall on my right. My eyes are drawn to the framed photos on top of his dresser, but I can't tell who's in them from this far away. Absently, I take my silver dangly earrings off and turn to drop them on top of the nightstand next to me. A small remote is laying there, and, curious, I pick it up.

It's smaller than a normal television remote, and instead of number and function keys, there are only four arrow buttons. Fancy, fancy. Pointing it toward the flat screen, I press an arrow, but nothing happens. I try another one, and then twist my head to the right when the curtains covering the wall begin to slide open.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I hiss, looking down at the remote and desperately pushing the opposite arrow button. Despite my attempts, the motor continues to hum quietly, pulling the curtains back. Glancing up, I gasp. "Oh, my God."

"Pretty good view, huh?" Edward asks softly, reentering the room.

"Incredible," I whisper, staring out at the Seattle skyline, brilliantly lit up across the water. Blindly, I set the remote back on the nightstand. "I feel like I've already used all the superlative adjectives in my vocabulary describing this apartment, Cullen. But that view is unbelievably fantastic."

"Agreed," he remarks, coming around to the side of the bed where I am and sitting down on the edge to face me.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been messing with your stuff," I say sheepishly, finally looking at him as I accept the bottle of water he opens for me.

"It's no big deal, Swan. Mess with my stuff all you want," he shrugs. "It doesn't bother me."

I'm a bit bothered by the ease with which he lets me all the way into his personal space, but I can't think of anything witty to say to relieve my discomfort. We're both quiet for a few seconds as we drink from our water bottles. Looking at the top of his dresser once more, I use the bottle to point that way. "Family photos?"

"Yeah, some of them are," he answers, twisting his body to look at them, too. "You want to see?"

I answer yes, and Cullen sets his water on the nightstand before he gets up to grab the pictures. I set mine down, too, sitting cross-legged and tucking the sheet under my armpits to hold it in place across my chest.

Cullen sits facing me again, holding two frames. He holds one toward me and I rest it on my leg as I study the pictures on both sides of the double frame. The photos seem to be of the same couple, but one is clearly from a long-gone era. They're young; both dressed nicely in clothes that I would guess are from the 1940's or 1950's. The second photo is current. They're much older, of course, but their wide smiles are the same.

"Your grandparents?"

"Yes. Edward and Liz. This one was taken around 1955. They were already married, but my mom wasn't born yet. The other is on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Gran got sick a few months later, and went downhill fast. They didn't make it to fifty-one."

Overcome by sadness, I touch her face in the older photo while my eyes flit back and forth between both. "They look so happy."

"They always seemed to be," he agrees with a sigh. "They met when he was playing at a jazz club in Chicago and spent the next three days together. Over the five months that followed, they saw each other nine more days. And then they got married."

"After twelve days together? That was a leap of faith," I laugh, looking up at him again.

"He was traveling around with different acts back then. They courted by mail," he chuckles. "It seems crazy, though, doesn't it? But it worked for them. I guess when it's the right time, you know it."

We stare at each other for several awkward seconds before he clears his throat and picks the picture up. He leans past me to prop it on the nightstand, and then lays the second frame on my lap.

This one was taken on a football field. Cullen is in the center of the photo, wearing a purple Northwestern jersey, so it must have been a home game. I trace my finger across the white seven covering his chest as I bend closer. Eye black covers his upper cheeks in two perfect rectangles, and he's surrounded by people who I assume are his family.

"Look at all your hair," I remark, entertained by the holy mess of tangles on top of his head.

"It was a little out of control," he concedes, laughing. I point to a blonde in the photo. "Sister," he says, answering my unspoken question. He points to a tiny brunette. "Other sister."

"Which one is which?"

"Alice. Oldest. Bitchy one," he says before moving his finger to the blonde. "Rosalie. Middle child. Nice one."

"And these are your parents? Was it senior day?" I ask, noting the bouquet of flowers his mom is holding.

"Yes and yes," he answers. "It was the only game they came to that year."

"What?" I feel my mouth fall open as my eyebrows shoot upward. I look up at him disbelievingly. "Your parents only came to one game your senior year?"

He nods tightly, dropping his eyes to the photo again. "Probably wouldn't have come to that one if my granddad hadn't pointed out that it would be televised on the Big Ten Network. They haven't been to any of my games since I was drafted either. Participation in their kids' lives has never been a priority for Carlisle and Esme."

Shocked, my heart aches when I imagine how badly that must hurt him. I lean forward, hooking one arm around his neck to hug him. He swallows loudly. "Cullen, I'm so sorry."

"I'm used to it," he says.

"That doesn't make it okay," I whisper, resting my cheek against his. Pulling away after another minute, I look at the photo again. "Your granddad was there, too."

"Uh huh. He never missed a home game. Gran didn't either, until my senior year. She died the summer before."

I reach for his hand, squeezing gently in sympathy. It sounds like our grandmothers died within a few months of each other. With my other hand, I touch the final face in the picture. I'm pretty sure I know who she is, but I ask anyway. "And this is…?"

"Tanya."

"She's beautiful," I remark, studying her. Everything about her is the opposite of me. She looks tall; Edward doesn't tower over her the way he does me. Her platinum hair shines in the sun. She looks good standing beside him. Right beside him. "And she's still close with your family?"

"Yes. My mom loves her, mostly because she's in med school, I think. She and Rosalie are roommates. I saw her when I was in Chicago last spring." I nod, still eyeing the picture. I don't want to look at Cullen… afraid he'll see the look of jealous distaste on my face. And afraid of the look I might see on his. "She's a great girl. You'll like her."

"I'm meeting her?" I ask, glancing up involuntarily. My stomach flops nervously at the idea of being in the same room with his statuesque former girlfriend.

"Well, yeah, sooner or later. If I can convince you to stick around, I mean." He speaks hesitantly, watching me as if he's scared I'm going to run away like I have several times before. While I'm staring back at him, his cheeks redden, and in spite of my lingering anxiety, I can't resist leaning forward to brush my lips softly against his. "Are you coming to the game Sunday?"

His voice is quiet and hopeful, reminding me that he's been disappointed by people not showing up for him in the past. Pushing my own worries aside for the moment, I sit back to smile at him and lift one hand to his face, stroking my thumb across his lower lip.

"I wouldn't miss it."

His face relaxes, but his gaze is serious, staying locked with mine as he grasps my forearm lightly. "Stay?"

When he asks, I'm not sure if he means tonight… or longer. And when I answer, I'm not sure which I mean either.

"Yeah, Cullen. I'll stay."


	9. Calling an Audible

**A/N: After a crazy couple of weeks, things are settling down a bit for me. Hopefully, they'll stay that way. ****And I won't mention (much) how the Jayhawks won the Big 12 Tournament yesterday and got a #1 seed in the NCAA Tourney today. March Madness is here!  
**

**It's also St. Paddy's Day, which in my younger days meant drinking an obscene amount of green beer. Who ever thought that was a good idea? It's all fun and games until someone can't get out of bed the next day. I think it's the food coloring. ;)**

**Big thanks to Littlecat358 for all her help, especially pointing out a couple of areas to tweak. And also to Michelle0526 for prereading. I love you both and so appreciate all the help you give! xoxo**

**Thanks to the wonderful admins at The Lemonade Stand for the rec's, and to kymbersmith90 for writing a sweet review.**

**Thanks so much for the follows, favorites and reviews. I love reading what you think!**

* * *

Before my eyes are open, I hear raindrops pelting the windows. It's not unusual for me to wake up to that sound. It _is_ unusual for me to wake up in a bed that's not mine and open my eyes to look out windows that aren't mine. Pinned to the bed by the heavy arm draped over my waist, I blink slowly at the Seattle skyline across the water. It was so brightly lit a few hours ago, but now it's barely visible in the gloomy, overcast morning.

We were too distracted last night to close the curtains over Cullen's windows again. Smiling, I reach for his hand, sliding my fingers between his as flashes of last night rush through my memory. The urgency of our first time. The slow, sweet exploration of our second. His hands. His mouth. His body. It was late when we fell into exhausted sleep, wound around each other.

The room is light enough that I can tell the sun is up, but I have no idea what time it is – I'm not wearing a watch and my cell phone is dead, laying at the bottom of my purse. Twisting my neck slightly, I look toward the nightstand, hoping to see a clock. No such luck. Instead, I spot the photos Cullen showed me last night, immediately focusing on the picture from his senior day at Northwestern. For student athletes, it's one of the most special days of their college careers, standing at mid-field while the entire stadium applauds their accomplishments. He looks happy, smiling crookedly in the picture. I'm so glad that he had the experience, even if it was somewhat marred by the relationship he has – or doesn't have – with his parents.

Smirking, I study the younger Cullen more closely. Once I get past the mop of unruly hair, I realize how much skinnier he was three years ago – thin face, lanky arms, long legs covered by tight, white pants. He was beautiful then, but I think he's even better looking now that his face and body have filled out some. As I shift my eyes to the right, I notice that although his mom is standing close to his left side, they're not touching. Edward's arm hangs at his side and Esme – I think that's her name – is using both hands to hold her flowers.

She's pretty – and she passed some of her best features to her son. They have the same nose, same eye shape, same smile. She's wearing black pants and a purple sweater that matches the color of his jersey, dressing the part of the devoted mom and fan. Cullen's dad is on her other side. He's also tall and good-looking. Also smiling for the camera. Also treats his son like crap.

How can they appear so normal in the photo, seeming to stand proudly next to their football star son, and yet be so disinterested in his life, both then and now? How can they not support him? I don't think I like either of them. Jackwagons.

With a silent sigh, I let my gaze scan the other faces in the frame, landing for a few seconds on Cullen's granddad, the bitchy sister, the nice sister. And then, finally, Tanya. Despite the fact that I'm the one lying in bed with him now, I can't help the twinge of jealousy I feel as I scrutinize her. His right arm is wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close. She's tall, gorgeous and curvy in all the right spots – all things I wish Cullen's ex-girlfriend wasn't. And she's in medical school, so she's probably freaking brilliant, too.

He hasn't said what happened between them to end their romantic relationship, but he isn't bitter or hateful toward her. That probably means it was his decision, right? Or it means that he forgives just as well as he seems to do everything else.

Regardless of their continued friendship, the thought of being in the same room with her someday ties my stomach in nervous knots. And, although it will remain unspoken, I have a three-word reply to Cullen's optimistic, yet misguided, assertion that I'll actually _like_ her: Fat fucking chance.

Suddenly, the radio on the other nightstand comes on and he pulls away from me to turn it off, but not before I recognize the voice of the person speaking. It's Cory Evans, the host of KSST's Saturday morning show. My heart flutters in my chest as I remember Cullen saying he wakes up listening to me every morning, and I have no trouble tearing my eyes away from Tanya to roll toward him. He's lying on his back, but turns his head to look at me.

"Morning, legs," he mutters, smiling sleepily.

"Hi," I answer quietly as my eyes wander from his bright, green eyes to the dark stubble covering his jaw and back again. When he reaches toward me, I boost myself up to kiss him, pressing my lips to his several times before I lie down on my stomach, resting my head on his outstretched arm. I put my hand over his heart and brush my fingers slowly back and forth. We lie in silence for long enough that I wonder if he went back to sleep, but I'm too content to open my eyes and check. Finally, I feel his chest vibrate under my fingertips as he speaks.

"You want to sneak into the team hotel tonight?"

"No!" I exclaim as he chuckles. I know he's joking, but my heart still pounds with fear at the thought of attempting it. "The Chief caught me sneaking out my window once when I was seventeen. I got grounded for the rest of my life."

"Which was two weeks, right?"

Pleased that he remembers that detail from our conversation on the morning we met, I push myself up on my elbow to grin at him. "Yeah. I'm not taking any chances. He could make _both_ of our lives miserable now."

"Good point," he laughs, stroking his hand up and down my back. "Come back tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, I'll be here after the game if you want. I'm not staying over, though."

"Why not?" He frowns slightly.

"I have to get up at four o'clock Monday morning for work," I remind him.

"So? I have an alarm clock. I'll make sure you wake up." As usual, his persuasive tone holds just enough challenge to make an already enticing plan almost impossible for me to refuse. "I'll even move the coffeemaker back here."

I narrow my eyes at him, struggling to keep a straight face as I look into his shining eyes. "That's a low blow, Cullen, sweetening the deal that way."

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep his smile in check, too. "I play to win, Swan."

He would have won without the coffee… and it's not the convenience of having it in the bathroom that's causing warm tingles to creep up my spine right now; it's the fact that he's willing to rearrange his space for me.

"All right. All right," I sigh, shaking my head at him teasingly. "You win."

When his lips begin to curve upward, I can't resist lowering my mouth to his. He holds me close as we kiss, slowly moving our lips and tongues together until I can't breathe. Gasping, I turn my head slightly.

"Wanna shower with me?" he murmurs, shifting his lips to my jaw.

"Yes," I whisper, arching my neck to give him more room. "But it's not a good idea. You have to leave soon."

"Not for almost an hour," he argues. "That's long enough for me."

I pull back, lifting one eyebrow as I look at him. "It's not long enough for _me_."

Groaning, he reaches for my head, tugging me down again. This kiss is urgent and quickly becomes heated. When his hands wander toward my ass, I wrench my mouth away, dragging my fingers across his chest before I roll away to lie flat on my back.

Panting, I stare at the ceiling and pull the sheet up to cover my chest. "I think we'd better get dressed or I really will make you late for the team meeting."

"Okay," he agrees, chuckling quietly. He reaches over to squeeze my hand. "I'm going to go take a very cold shower. Don't leave."

I wait until he goes into the bathroom and closes the sliding door before I get out of bed. I find my underwear and shorts on the floor, pausing to put them on before I head up the hall. I pick up my bra and t-shirt, stop to grab a ponytail holder out of my purse and go into the small bathroom near the kitchen.

Once I'm fully clothed and have pulled my messy hair up, I walk into the kitchen. I start the coffee, and then dig around in Cullen's refrigerator, trying to find something to cook him for breakfast. While the eggs and turkey bacon are sizzling on his fancy stove, I sip hot coffee, remembering my dad telling me he would load up on carbs the day before a game. I don't know if Cullen does that or not, but as soon as I put the eggs and bacon on a plate for him, I decide to look for oatmeal.

I open and close three cabinets without finding any, but when I open the fourth door, my mouth drops open in surprise.

"What the hell, Cullen?" I mutter under my breath.

"It smells great out here," he calls from down the hallway. I grab the incriminating object from the shelf, hiding it behind my back and turning toward the doorway to face him. "You didn't have to fix me anything."

His hair is still wet when he walks into the kitchen. Thinking of him in the shower almost makes me lose my train of thought, but I force myself to refocus. "Don't get used to it. I'm not very domestic."

He chuckles, and then notices that I'm holding something. "What do you have back there?"

"Evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Your duplicity."

"What are you talking about?" He's confused… and amused.

"You, Cullen, who gave me shit for having a bunch of junk food in my grocery cart only three short weeks ago, have _this_ in your cabinet," I declare dramatically, producing the box of Frosted Flakes from behind my back with a flourish worthy of a television courtroom. "Would you care to explain the presence of Tony the Tiger alongside the Kashi and Shredded Wheat?"

"It's not mine," he claims, holding his hands up innocently.

"Oh, Cullen, come on," I huff. Frowning, I try to look disappointed, but it's difficult because he's really freaking cute. "I expected a more creative excuse from you."

"I'm telling the truth! Look at the box. It's never been opened," he insists, moving to stand right in front of me. Glancing down, I see that he's right; the top is still sealed. When I look back up, his cheeks are flushed. "I got it for you."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Huh?"

"I bought it that night I saw you at the grocery store," he replies, looking sheepishly at me.

That answer certainly steals my gotcha thunder… and my breath. "Why?" I whisper.

He shrugs slightly and lowers his eyes before he answers. "Because after I saw you that night, I decided I wouldn't give up until I convinced you to give me a shot." He pauses to swallow. "I'd never wanted to know someone so much before I met you. And I thought… I hoped… that since you knocked down an entire display of food trying to run away, maybe you were affected by me, too."

I was, but I'm not about to deal with the intensity of those feelings right now. Following my usual pattern, I divert.

"So, you planned to lure me here with sugary cereal?" I grin, even though he's not looking at me – and even though I'm still not breathing quite right. "Nice tactic. Simple yet effective. Brilliant yet, given how awful I looked that night, seriously misguided."

"Bella, you're beautiful," he says, his voice low as he lifts his gaze to meet mine again, "whether you're dressed up, dressed down or not dressed at all."

As I fight not to let my knees buckle, I set the cereal box down on my right without looking, hearing it tip over on the counter.

"What are you trying to do to me?" I mumble, reaching for him. I wrap my arms around his waist as he steps forward.

He bends down to me, raising his hands to cup the sides of my neck as he settles his lips against mine. I'm briefly aware that he smells really good and tastes like toothpaste, but that thought is quickly overtaken by lust. We kiss feverishly for a couple of minutes, lips and tongues moving together eagerly, before I twist out of his arms, stumbling backward a couple of steps.

"Jesus, Cullen. Take your plate and step away."

He does as I ask, sitting down at the kitchen counter with his food. Just before he takes his first bite, he looks up at me with a smirk.

"For the record, Swan, I think not dressed at all is my favorite."

I can't help the chuckle that escapes my lips, and I pick up my mug of coffee, leaning back against the stove as I take a drink. Although I won't say it out loud, I think not dressed at all is my favorite, too.

* * *

By the time I get in the press box the next day, Emmett and Riley are already sitting down in the front row. Even though we arrived at the stadium together, I stopped in the ladies room on the way upstairs. I set my bag down in the empty chair between them, and then notice the big plate of food in front of Emmett.

"Emmett McCarty, how can you be hungry?" I ask. He mumbles something unintelligible as he chews. "We just had brunch an hour ago."

He tilts his head back a little, trying to talk normally even though he hasn't swallowed everything in his mouth yet. "It's free food, Swan," he says… I think.

"Gross. Trade me," I say, motioning Riley to scoot over next to Emmett. I sit down on his other side.

"You've been quiet about your weekend, Bella," Riley remarks as I begin setting out my laptop, paper and pens as usual. "What did you do yesterday?"

"Laundry." I shrug nonchalantly. "Watched some college football. Watched a little baseball."

I don't add that I did all those things while wearing Cullen's Northwestern sweatshirt. When we left the penthouse yesterday morning, he said I was dressed for L.A. and refused to let me go home in the chilly rain wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. He also drove me to my truck and warmed it up for me while I sat in the heated-seat comfort of his SUV. I kept the sweatshirt on all day, even re-dressing in it after I showered.

Without thinking, I lean forward and look down at the field, smiling when I see number seven among the crowd of Seahawks players warming up. Once I'm aware of what I've done, I immediately sit back, glancing to my right to see if Riley and Emmett noticed, but they're embroiled in a heated debate about which Mariners pitcher should start the first playoff game. Neither of them is paying any attention to me.

Still, I try to be more discreet as I organize my work space, sneaking peeks at Cullen while he throws a couple of short passes, and then swings his arm in wide circles to loosen up his shoulder. Pulling my eyes away at last, I power up my laptop and put my two cents in about the Mariners' pitching rotation. By the time I look down at the field again, the players have gone to the locker room for final game preparations.

To pass the minutes until game time, I open up the stat spreadsheet I prepared. Beside me, Emmett and Riley have switched topics and are discussing which defensive scheme the Seahawks should use against the Jags today. Engrossed in what I'm reading on my screen, I'm only half-listening to them… until I hear the most horrible sound: Newton's voice.

"As long as the line holds, our hometown boys won't have a problem," he declares, pulling out the chair next to me and dropping into it. "Jacksonville doesn't have much of a deep threat."

Although his statement is accurate, I'm so annoyed by his presence that I have a hard time not rolling my eyes. If I'd known he was coming to the game, I would have stayed seated in the chair between Emmett and Riley. Instead, I'll be stuck sitting beside him for the next three hours. Perfect. But I force myself to speak civilly, unwilling to give him the pleasure of knowing he gets to me.

Once the game starts, I completely tune out Newton's chatter. The Seahawks have the ball first and put together a solid drive, methodically moving down the field. I bite my lip almost continuously to keep from smiling and take excessively detailed notes to keep my itchy hands from applauding. When Cullen throws a twelve-yard touchdown pass, I roll my chair backward reflexively, ready to stand up and cheer with the crowd outside the press box windows. Suddenly aware of my near-misstep, and realizing that all three of my co-workers are looking at me, I cover by hopping up and offering to get drinks for everyone from the buffet at the back of the room.

For the rest of the game, I hold my emotions in check, not reacting at all even though Cullen is having his best start yet. The Seahawks are relentless, scoring more points than they have in any other game this season while holding Jacksonville to four field goals. They win the game easily and I watch proudly as Cullen shakes hands with several opposing players before leaving the field.

As I'm packing up my laptop, I listen to Riley and Emmett discuss him, willing my tongue to stay still.

"Did you see the arc on that deep pass? Shit, it was beautiful," Riley praises. "Cullen's proving that he's got an arm."

"Yeah, there's not much to criticize about the kid's performance today," Emmett adds.

"Let's not anoint him Seattle's golden boy quite yet," Newton interjects. "It was _one_ game."

"Actually, Michael, it's now a four-game stretch of steady improvement," I snap. Son of a buck! So much for my restraint.

I feel his eyes on me before he speaks. "What's got you so riled up, Bella?" he asks.

"Besides your glaring inability to recognize the evolution of raw talent into a precisely-controlled skill?" I retort, spinning my chair around to stare at him. I tap my index finger against my chin, pretending to think about it. "Oh, I don't know. Lots of things. Never-ending road construction on I-5. The continued suppression of female rights more than thirty years after women's lib began. The lack of instant replay in Major League Baseball even thought it's both plausible and practical. And don't even get me started on the curse commonly known as PMS."

While Newton sputters, his face reddening with anger or embarrassment – or both – Emmett chimes in with his opinion, too.

"Dude, her dad is one of Cullen's coaches. It's no wonder she's pissed off by your skepticism," he reasons, assuming I'm defending my father instead of my boyfriend. "Plus, she's right. Cullen has been better every week since that last preseason game."

"I agree. It seems like Cullen's making that turn that all good QBs make," Riley remarks, further backing me. It's three against one. Newton will definitely make us pay for this later.

The skin around Newton's mouth draws tight and the muscles at the sides of his jaw pulse. "We'll see. It may not last."

"Or maybe it will," Riley counters.

Clearly agitated, Newton makes an excuse for his hasty exit and leaves, but not before ordering Emmett and me to be more than passive observers at the post-game presser. He wants a decent sound bite for tomorrow's show.

Riley tags along as we make our way downstairs and find seats near the back of the media room. While we wait for the press con to begin, I weasel a deal out of Emmett: I'll ask a question of Coach Erickson if he'll do the honors with Cullen. Eager to redeem himself for the way he behaved the last time Cullen was on the air with us, Emmett agrees.

As usual, Coach Erickson holds his conference first. Not surprisingly, he's in a great mood, although he's as gracious in victory as he has been in defeat. He heaps praise on several players, but concentrates on Cullen since most of the questions are about him. I ask about the two turnovers forced by the Seahawks defense, eliciting a decent response from Coach.

Cullen emerges about twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wearing a suit. Our eyes meet for a split second as he takes the podium, but he doesn't outwardly react like he did two weeks ago when he was surprised to see me here.

"Hey, Swan. You want to make a quick buck?" Emmett whispers, leaning over toward me. I shrug, not answering out loud. "I'll give you fifty if you ask a question about his ass."

I chuckle quietly as I turn toward him. "Fifty? Uh uh. You'll have to flash more cash to get me to humiliate myself that way again."

"I don't want you to do it to humiliate yourself. I want you to do it to piss Newton off."

That's actually tempting, but I wouldn't willingly embarrass Cullen now. I tilt my head, pretending to think about it before I decline. "Nah. My dad would kick _my_ ass if I derailed the presser that way."

When Cullen starts to answer questions, I watch him intently – the squinting left eye, the thoughtful answers, the easy way he commands the room without being conceited or obnoxious. It's so obvious that he's intelligent and a great leader.

Shaking my head slightly, I look down and blow out a deep breath. It's also obvious that I have no hope of forming an unbiased opinion about him. I don't think I stood a chance of that after the first time I looked into his green eyes.

From the corner of my eye, I see Emmett stand, and then hear Edward call on him.

"Nice game, Edward," Emmett begins. "Can you talk a little bit about that last scoring drive? Specifically, will you address whether that deep touchdown pass was an audible?"

"Sure, Emmett. We felt like we had a pretty good rhythm going by that point in the game," he responds. "The Chief and I worked extensively last week on improving my ability to read the defense. Coach Erickson told me before the drive that if I saw the opportunity for a long score to take it, and when we lined up for that play, I thought we'd be successful."

"And you were," Emmett adds with a laugh.

"It's hard to beat a good skinny post route," Cullen says, "especially if you've got a receiver who's fast and can get open."

Smirking, I slowly raise my head. I wonder if he's talking to me – that's the route I ran the day he dared me to prove I could catch. His eyes are on Emmett, but I swear they dart my way for an instant.

"Who's your favorite receiver?" Emmett continues teasingly. He knows Cullen won't answer that.

"Man, what is it with you and your co-host? You guys are always on my ass," he jokes. Laughter echoes through the room as people catch the double meaning of his words. I'm chuckling, too, although I'm sure my face is reddening. "We have a great set of offensive weapons with our corps of wide receivers, tight ends and running backs. It would be impossible to choose just one. It's a team sport."

I think that comment is for me, too, but I force myself to look at Emmett as he says thank you and sits down again, afraid my face will give me away if I keep looking at Edward.

"We got the sound bite Newton wanted. And it sounds like I'm forgiven," Emmett crows, leaning close as Edward calls on another reporter. "I guess Cullen got a little payback for all your comments about his ass, too."

"Yeah," I agree, struggling to keep my face and voice inexpressive. "I guess he did."

* * *

When the elevator doors open, Cullen is leaning against the wall in the hallway outside the penthouse, hands hanging casually from the front pockets of his jeans.

"Took you long enough to get here, Swan," he remarks, smiling crookedly at me.

"Sorry, Cullen," I apologize, walking toward him. "Got stuck in the Chief's office."

"Were you in trouble?"

"Nope. I hadn't called him since before I went to L.A. He wanted to know about the trip and about my new contract," I answer. Reaching him, I raise up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his shoulders. "Congratulations on the win. You were great. Everyone in the press box was impressed."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration, but thanks," he chuckles. "It felt pretty good."

Pulling back a little, I press my lips to his. "What do I smell?"

"Mrs. Berty brought fried chicken," he replies between kisses. "I'm starving."

"Then let's eat."

"I want to move your truck inside the parking garage first," he says, explaining further when I raise one eyebrow at him. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to walk to your truck alone in the morning on a dark street."

"Newsflash: I do it every day, Cullen," I point out.

"Not here. It'll make me feel better, okay? And I have four assigned spots." He holds his hand out for my keys, and I reluctantly hand them over. "Be right back."

"I don't usually let people drive my truck," I call, staring at his ass while he walks away. He steps onto the elevator and turns around to look at me. I shift my eyes upward just in time.

"I'll be gentle, baby," he responds with a wink.

Feeling the familiar rush of warmth spread through me, I grin foolishly back at him until the doors slide closed. Slightly dazed, I walk inside, listening to my heart hammer in my ears. How long will he continue to have this effect on me?

In the entryway, I kick off my shoes, and then pause, wondering what I should do with my overnight bag. Leave it here? Take it to his room? Still unsure, I carry it down the hall to the bedroom. After I turn on the bathroom light, I stand uncomfortably in the doorway and glance back and forth between the sinks situated on opposite walls. I know which one is Edward's. Is it too presumptuous to put my stuff on the other one?

As I gnaw indecisively on my lower lip, I notice that the small morning kitchen area next to the sink now holds a new coffeepot and two stainless steel travel cups. I make my way toward it, unceremoniously letting my bag and purse drop to the floor in front of the extra sink. This coffeepot is just like the expensive one I have at home – and it's already loaded with beans and set to come on at four a.m.

Nervous butterflies erupt and flit wildly around my stomach. Placing both palms on the granite counter to support myself, I try to breathe through the rising panic.

Oh, fuck. I am in a real fucking relationship. I mean, I knew that, but I try not to think about it. It's hard to ignore at the moment, though. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If the Chief could hear my language, I'd be grounded for the rest of my life. And then I wouldn't be standing in my boyfriend's bathroom freaking out about planned overnight stays and trucks parked in underground garages and coffeepot timers.

Being grounded doesn't sound so bad right now.

When I hear Edward walk into the room, I try to swallow my fear.

"You all right?" he asks, sliding one arm around my waist from behind. Reaching down, I grip his forearm and hold tightly, determined not to flee like I've done in the past.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I just feel weird – like I'm intruding. Changing your space."

"Bella, you've changed everything," he answers quietly.

How does he do that? With one simple statement, he soothes me, making me think I may actually _like_ being in a real fucking relationship.

Looking down, I loosen my grasp and slide my fingers along his arm slowly. Under the light coating of hair, I feel the muscles flex and contract. I've never been obsessed with someone's forearm before, but I find myself staring at Cullen's a lot.

He uses his free hand to push my hair out of his way, and then kisses up the side of my neck, stopping to suck on the spot just under my ear. Sighing, I tilt my head to the side and lean back against him.

"Cullen," I breathe quietly when he cups my breast. "I thought you were starving."

"Decided I'm not in the mood for chicken," he answers. "I'd rather have–."

"Oh, God," I interrupt with a groan. "Are you going to make some really bad fowl reference to my name?"

"No," he answers defiantly, but I feel his lips curl against my neck, so I know I was right.

Spinning around in his arms, I nibble at his lips until he holds my head still and slides his tongue into my mouth. After a moment, he wraps one arm around my waist, lifting me, and then turning to walk into the bedroom. He sets me on the side of the bed, breaking away long enough to pull off my shirt and his own. As we kiss again, he presses me backward until I'm lying flat and he's bent over me. Wanting his weight, I tug at his shoulders, but he resists.

"Legs, yesterday you said an hour wasn't long enough," he remarks quietly, pushing himself up to look at me. He leans on one arm and slowly traces his other hand down the center of my chest. "Today you're trying to rush me. Be patient."

When I arch my back, he reaches underneath me to unhook my bra, tossing it to the side after I pull my arms loose. Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he slides his hand up my ribcage to cover my breast. My physiological reaction is immediate when his fingers skim across my nipple, but it's the look in his eyes that has me whimpering quietly as I push myself further into his touch.

"Cullen," I mumble, lifting my palm to rest against the side of his face. Although I normally try desperately to conceal my feelings, in this moment I want him to understand how much being here with him means to me. After a few seconds, though, I lose my nerve and let my eyes slide shut, shielding me from his vivid stare.

His lips briefly graze mine before they move down my neck. My mouth falls open as his closes over one breast, pulling fiercely on me until I'm wriggling under him. He switches sides, tracing his fingers across my ribs and down the side of my leg.

Then, suddenly, his mouth, his touch, disappear. I open my eyes to see him shedding the rest of his clothes, and I reach for the button on my jeans. His fingers nudge mine out of the way, and he peels my jeans and underwear off a moment later, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

"Wait," I plead when he wedges himself between my knees, unsure if I want him to do what he's planning. Undeterred, he reaches for my hips and pulls me to the edge of the mattress.

"Baby, I'll be gentle," he promises.

"Isn't that what you said about my truck?" I wonder offhandedly, but when he puts his mouth on me, I can't really remember… can't really think.

Lips. Tongue. Hands. As he drives me closer and closer to climax, I don't worry which of those capable, erotic weapons he's using on me. I don't worry about the gaspy, noisy breaths I'm taking. I don't try to control the jerky movements of my hips. And as pleasure ripples through my body in waves, curling my shoulders up off the bed, I don't stay quiet, crying out loudly.

Once I'm lying flat again, I feel him shift between my legs, standing up and starting to push inside me. Reaching forward, I place my hand against his abs, pressing him back.

"Be patient," I smile. I scoot toward the middle of the bed and hold my hand out for him to take. "It's my turn."

He allows me to pull him onto the bed and roll on top of him. Burying one hand in his hair, I kiss him passionately, and then move my lips across his cheek to his ear, biting the lobe gently.

"Bella," he groans quietly, bucking underneath me. "I didn't make you wait."

"But you did imply that you'd treat me the same as my truck," I comment half-jokingly, rocking against him.

"It's important to you," he agrees, breathing hard and gripping my hips. "And you're important to me."

I stop moving and sit up, resting my hands on top of his. "Do you say these things on purpose or does it come naturally?"

"I'm just being honest."

"Oh, God, that's even worse," I mutter, but I smile as I lean forward to kiss him. "Now I'll have to give you what you want."

"I want you."

"I want you, too." My response is sincere, the truth bubbling out of me before I can silence it. And the truth is that I want more from him – with him – than immediate sexual gratification. And that truth terrifies me.

His hands slide up my back, keeping me close as he lifts his head to skim his lips along my jaw. Moaning quietly, I quit trying to think rationally and give in to what we both want. When I lift up slightly, he guides himself into me, thrusting upward while he pulls me down.

Moving slowly on him, I put my lips against his, trying to kiss him, but in reality, all we do is pant into each other's mouths. His hands roam my back and legs, and then slide between us to cup my breasts, squeezing lightly. I keep my measured pace, watching him, until he propels himself more forcefully into me.

"Baby," he groans, pushing gently on my chest.

Realizing what he needs, I sit up, gripping his arms while his hands settle on my hips, urging me to go faster. Although I want to close my eyes, savor the pleasure, I don't want to stop looking at him. I try to memorize everything about his face – the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he licks his lips before letting them fall open, the look in his darkened eyes as they slide shut.

When I know he's close, I lean forward, placing my palms on the bed beside his shoulders. Speeding up a little more, I feel him explode inside me with a groan, digging his fingers into my skin to hold me still.

"Cullen," I gasp, bowing my head as my orgasm spreads through me.

Fatigued, my shaky arms threaten to give out and I lower my chest to his, trying to catch my breath. With my cheek pressed against his damp skin, I listen as his racing heart slows, and then shudder when he scrapes his fingernails lightly up my back.

"Well, it only took me a month," I mumble.

"Only took you a month to do what, legs?" he answers hoarsely.

"To find one of your flaws," I reply. "You, Edward Cullen, are impatient."

He chuckles at my announcement, hugging me more tightly for a moment. "That's true, I suppose, at least some of the time. But I never considered it a flaw," he defends.

"Come to think of it," I respond, smiling as I scoot up to kiss him, "neither do I."

* * *

Eighteen days later, I stand at the bedroom window, leaning my forehead against the cool glass and looking down at the ferry crossing the dark water below. Behind me, Edward is lying in bed, watching the Thursday night NFL game. The Packers are winning by twenty-seven points, so I'm not paying close attention. Our show tomorrow morning will be focused on this Sunday's Seahawks game anyway.

Sighing quietly, I watch a small area of foggy condensation appear on the window. "What time do you leave for Chicago?" I ask.

"Charter's taking off about noon tomorrow," he answers.

"It's weird that you're leaving a day early."

"We need a day to get used to the time difference. It's too hard to travel West to East and play the early game the next afternoon," he explains.

He's already told me all this information. I'm not even sure why I brought it up again. Well, yes, I am. It's because I don't like the fact that he will be gone two nights this week instead of just one. I'm not confessing that out loud, though.

"I know," I say instead.

"Are you coming back to bed?"

"In a minute."

"Are you taking my t-shirt off and having your way with me again when you do?"

I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's smiling, but I don't look at him. I glimpse my reflection in the window – unruly hair, Cullen's baggy t-shirt hanging loosely around my thighs, a smirk pulling at the corners of my mouth. "Maybe," I shrug, then chuckle when he growls my name.

On the television, the announcers are talking about Aaron Rodgers dropping back to throw it deep, and I know I'll lose Cullen's attention, at least for a minute.

Still watching the lights of the ferry below, I let my mind drift back over the last three weeks. I've seen Edward every day; I've slept in his bed more than my own. We've been back to the jazz club, and also to a few art shops and several out-of-the-way diners. He's been recognized a couple of times, but the fans don't pay much attention to me unless they want a picture with him and ask me to do the honors.

Most evenings, though, we sit side-by-side on his couch. Sometimes we watch television or talk. Other nights, I do research and make topic lists for the show while Cullen watches film or studies the playbook for the next game. Occasionally, he tries to sidetrack me with his hands or lips; he's usually successful.

"Legs, you gotta watch this replay," he says, pulling me out of my musing.

I turn around to see him lying propped on three pillows, the sheet laying low across his abs. He's looking at the TV, but I keep my eyes on him, watching him drink from the bottle of water I brought him several minutes ago.

When he notices I'm looking, he sets the water down on the nightstand and curls his fingers at me, beckoning unnecessarily; I'm already walking toward him. I can't help it. Anytime we're in the same room, I eventually gravitate toward him. Putting a knee on the bed, I crawl across it, dropping two kisses on the spot over his heart. With a happy sigh, I settle sideways with my feet dangling off the side of the bed and my head resting on his stomach.

"He's got such a nice spiral," he comments as we watch the slow motion version of Rodgers' TD pass when the game goes to commercial.

"So do you," I argue.

"You've already admitted you're not impartial about me." While he's talking, he pulls his fingers lazily through my hair, spreading it across his chest.

"I'm getting better at being objective," I answer defensively.

That's true, and it's also true that his play has continued to progress over the last two games, despite the fact that they were both Seahawks losses. Deep down, Cullen knows that; he's never outwardly arrogant about his abilities, but no one can play at the pro level without having a healthy amount of self-confidence. He knows exactly how good his stats have been. He's always humble, though. I, on the other hand, like to boast once in a while… especially when I kick Peter the prick's ass in fantasy ball three weeks in a row.

"And I have a good eye for talent anyway," I continue. "I've clawed my way up to sixth place in my fantasy league, you know."

"I know, baby. You told me last night, and then you bragged about it this morning on your show. All morning," he teases.

"Two segments! I only talked about it for two segments!" I exclaim, laughing with him.

He's right, though. I overdid it a little. Newton threw a fit the likes of which I haven't heard since the morning of the infamous ass conversation. At the post-show meeting, he even accused me of being a braggadocio. I accused him of trying to use the dictionary dot com word of the day in a complete sentence. We were probably both right. I declared it a draw.

When the game comes back on TV, we both quiet down. Cullen rubs light circles down my back, and then I feel him bunching the fabric of the t-shirt in his fist, exposing my ass and lower back. His hand rests at the base of my spine, fingers slipping just under the waistband of my lacy underwear. Soothed by the touch of his thumb sliding gently, repetitively across my skin, I close my eyes and go back to thinking about how great the last three weeks have been.

Honestly, I realize he's the reason this relationship is going so well. He's sweet and attentive, funny and affectionate. He asks questions and listens with interest to the answers. He seems to value my opinion – value me. When he looks at me with shining eyes and that crooked smile, my heart clenches so tightly that it's almost painful.

I'm feeling pretty smug about my personal development, too, though. My freak outs have been less frequent than before, and I'm learning how to handle them better… or maybe Cullen is learning how to handle _me_ better. Despite the fact that I've diligently tried to hide the worst parts of my nature, he seems to have me figured out in a lot of ways. He has definitely learned not to push me too far – he knows I'll panic and bolt.

"Bella?"

"Hmm?" I murmur without opening my eyes. Turning my head slightly, I press my lips against the warm skin of his stomach.

"Look at me," he pleads.

The urgency in his voice immediately puts me on edge; my heart pounds slow and hard in my ears. Reluctantly, I lift my head and turn to face him, using one hand to sweep my hair out of my face. When I see his nervous expression, the heavy weight of dread settles in my chest. He reaches one hand down to cup my upturned cheek.

"I love you."

Oh, crap, Cullen. What the hell are you doing?

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	10. Running a Reverse

**A/N: I can't say thank you enough for the favorites, follows and reviews. :) I truly appreciate them, even though I really totally suck at review replies lately. **

**I owe an enormous thank you to my great friend, Littlecat358. Her beta and plot progression skills are unmatched. Another great friend, Michelle0526, preread the chapter...and I think has an anniversary coming up tomorrow. ;) Thanks so much for all the help!**

**Random rambles below... feel free to skip.**

**The last month has been even crazier than usual around here as we prepared for my oldest children's (twins) graduation. There were more activities and parties surrounding their eighth grade graduation than my high school or college graduation! Things have changed. LOL It was all fun and fantastic, though, despite the amount of whining I did about having every single weekend in May completely consumed by their festivities. **

**Yesterday, someone at work told me I should have my own reality show. I'm not sure if that was a compliment or a slam...**

**I found a pair of women's shoes under my bed a few days ago. They weren't mine. They were, however, old lady shoes. I called my husband and told him if he's going to screw around, he should be more careful... about who he does it with. ;) That's just sick. Luckily for him, his mother (who is an old lady) claimed she left them here when she stayed with our kids several weeks ago while we were both out of town for work. Likely story. Guess I'll let it slide this time, though.**

******My mother, who normally scolds me for drinking when we go out to dinner, scolded me for _not_ drinking when we went out for my sister's birthday last week. It's possible she's gone crackers... and I like her that way. **

**I'm going to have to work part of this holiday weekend and spend the rest of it with my husband's family. I'm trying not to constantly complain about that. It's not working.**

**On that note, I'll zip it before I say anything incriminating. :)**

**Thanks for reading.**

* * *

_I love you… I love you… I love you._

Cullen's softly spoken words echo in my ears, drowning out the noise coming from the television across the room. As my shock fades, joy and fear simultaneously erupt. My delighted heart flutters wildly, but my chest constricts so tightly that I have to force myself to inhale and exhale several times. I blink slowly, finding it difficult to keep my gaze matched with his – yet impossible to look away. All the while, we play this unconventional game of chicken, each of us waiting for the other to break the silence.

As competitive as I am, this isn't necessarily a game I want to win. I'm terrified of what he'll say next. Will he repeat his tender declaration or retract it? At the moment, I'm not sure which of those options I'd prefer.

Although my mind is racing, I can't formulate a coherent response; the defense mechanisms I usually rely on to help me navigate situations like this have abandoned me. No humorous remark flies out of my mouth. No sarcastic comment pops into my head. No smooth segue to a safer topic will save me this time.

Instead, a tiny whisper in my head, growing louder by the second, urges me to admit my feelings to him – to myself. My lips part slightly, the words poised to roll off my tongue, until my internal tête-à-tête is interrupted by the booming voice of reason, warning me that heartbreak and devastation are what await me at the end of this rainbow. That unwelcome reminder is enough to silence the romantic notions of happily ever after rushing through my brain.

Deciding to stall for a moment, I try to say his name, but nothing comes out. At the same time, I hear him gulp, and my stomach drops as I realize I'm about to become the victor of the quiet game.

"Bella, I mean it," he insists, his cheeks reddening. Clearly, we have each overestimated the other. While I was confident he knew me well enough not to push too hard, he's seemingly under the impression that I'm past my freak-out phase. Until a few minutes ago, I might have agreed with him, but now I'm not sure I can deal with whatever he's going to say. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn my head away, not bothering to brush back the hair covering my face. "I love you."

Oh, crap. Although the words spark another flash of pleasure, it's immediately drowned by the wave of nausea that rolls through me. I try to calm myself, but no amount of deep breathing will curtail my reaction this time. I feel the panic grow in the pit of my stomach, coldly creeping outward until every muscle in my body is tense… on call… ready to run. Desperate, I try to think of a gracious way to get out of here, but I'm not patient enough to let manners kick in.

I sit up, staying turned away from him and pushing the hair out of my face.

"Um, I don't have clothes here for tomorrow, you know, since I came straight from dinner with Sue," I mumble, relieved that my voice works at last, even though I'm not thrilled with the words I speak. "So, you know, I need to go home."

Scooting off the side of the bed, I stand up and walk toward the bathroom, stopping along the way to pick my clothes up from the floor where they landed two hours ago. Fragmented bits of the evening whiz through my memory – our laughter as he pulled me toward the bedroom, gentle kisses that quickly turned frantic, the way he looked at me when he was buried deep inside me.

By the time I get into the bathroom and slide the door closed, I think I'm going to throw up. Leaning over the sink where I've gotten ready for work almost every morning of the last three weeks, I cup my hands under the faucet and splash cool water on my face. It doesn't help much, so I press my hands against my stomach for an instant before I take off Cullen's t-shirt and get dressed. Pathetically, I can't stop myself from inhaling his scent from the t-shirt after I fold it, but I force myself to set it down. Then I finally look in the mirror, shaking my head at my reflection.

"You're so stupid and selfish," I whisper, angry with myself and disappointed in my behavior. Tears sting my eyes, but I quickly fan them away, puffing my cheeks as I blow out a big breath.

Truthfully, I knew that the vow I made weeks ago to keep my eyes open and heart guarded was never going to work, but I deluded myself into thinking that I wouldn't have to face reality until the end of the season. Instead of working past my inability to commit, I've chosen to recklessly ignore both it and my rapidly growing feelings for Edward. While he's been honest and straightforward, I've joked around, lashed out and dodged the emotional intimacy he craves. And now my irrational fear is likely going to cost me someone I don't want to lose.

On the other hand, this relationship was never going to last long-term, right? Athletes with his talent and charm eventually end up on the wish lists of both high-profile advertisers and high-profile women. The scenario I imagine if I confess my feelings to him is one where my happiness is short-lived. The excitement of infatuation will subside. This intense passion will surely burn out. Then Cullen will get a better offer and move on… and I'll never recover.

The sharp pain that slices through my chest at that thought confirms my decision. My sense of self-preservation, which has been dormant for the last few weeks, is suddenly returning with a vengeance. I'm convinced it will hurt less to get out now while I still have a small amount of dignity intact… and before he has the chance to break my heart. I have no choice: I have to go.

As I slide the bathroom door open and walk through, I keep my eyes downcast, going quickly toward the end of the bed where my shoes are. I slide my flats on, and then peek at him. He hasn't moved since I got up, and he eyes me warily as I take two steps backward – toward the door.

"I'll call you tomorrow," I say, but I don't think I mean it.

"Yeah," he replies flatly, shifting his gaze to the television.

When I turn to walk away, my gaze is drawn to the anniversary photo of Cullen's grandparents displayed on his dresser.

_That won't be us._

Grief grips my chest, stealing my breath. The fact that I've looked at this picture countless times over the last few weeks and foolishly allowed a secret fantasy to blossom in my head – my heart – is further proof of just how far I let my shield lapse. Why would I ever think that the devotion evident in their eyes is something that Cullen and I could share?

I can't dwell on that right now. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, fighting the urge to flee at a dead run. In the foyer, I pause to scoop my purse and jacket from the chair near the door, and then rush to the elevator and push the call button repeatedly.

"Please. Please." My whispered words are frantic, begging the elevator to hurry.

"You're not coming back, are you?" he asks from behind me. Surprised, I gasp, raising one hand to my chest. I didn't hear him approach.

"Um, not tonight," I answer without turning around. I can hear how artificially high-pitched my voice is. He'll see right through me. "It's late. I'll just stay at my own place."

"Don't bullshit me! I saw the panic in your eyes. You're cutting out." His voice is harsh and accusatory – he's never spoken to me in this tone before. Involuntarily, my shoulders curl inward as if to protect myself from the force of his words. "You're such a chickenshit, Swan. Why are you so afraid of my feelings for you? Or is it the way _you_ feel that scares you?"

It's both. It's everything. I'm scared of everything, including telling him what I'm scared of. Shaking my head, I mumble, "I'm sorry, Edward."

"Don't be sorry; just don't be such a coward," he demands angrily. "You're walking away from something great here – why? Because you're afraid of being vulnerable? Being hurt? Well, I'm fucking scared, too. I'm scared out of my mind by how strong my feelings are for you." It sounds like he's moved a little closer, but I don't look. "But you know what else? It also feels fucking great, Bella. To feel this way about someone and know that person feels the same – because I know you do, even if you won't admit it – it feels fucking fantastic."

Tears fill my eyes again, threatening to spill over. He's right. I know he's right. But I can't make myself give in. Behind me, he sighs heavily.

"Jesus, Bella. Don't go….please," he pleads softly. Oh, my God. Where is the goddamn elevator? I feel like I'm being slowly ripped apart. "Don't run away from me."

At last, the elevator bell dings. As soon as the doors open, I step on and finally turn to face him. He's standing with his hands on his hips, wearing athletic shorts, but no shirt. I watch his chest rise and fall rapidly twice before lifting my gaze – and then I wish I hadn't. The pained look on his face destroys me; lips drawn into a grim line, green eyes red-rimmed and lifeless. After staring at each other for several seconds, he shakes his head and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I croak, tears sliding down my face. I know my repetitious apology is inadequate, but there's nothing else to say. Without opening his eyes, he turns and walks back into the penthouse while I raise my hands to press against my mouth. Once the doors slide shut, I slump to the floor, resting my head on my knees as the elevator descends.

* * *

The blaring of my phone alarm yanks me from my dreamless sleep, and I sit upright in bed, looking around… disoriented when I realize that I'm in my room instead of Cullen's. Squinting against the throbbing in my temples, I cringe as I recall everything that happened last night, from his sweet, but ill-timed words to my gutless retreat. I don't have to glance down to confirm that I'm wearing his Northwestern sweatshirt – the one I wore home the morning after we first slept together. I remember pulling it on last night before I curled up in my bed and cried until I felt empty.

Blindly, I pat my hand around on the comforter and silence my noisy phone with my thumb. Turning my head the other way, I look at the empty coffeepot on my nightstand, wishing I had loaded it last night. With a sigh, I get up and unplug it, carrying it with me to the kitchen.

While I get ready for work, I try to block out all thoughts of Cullen, but the gnawing knot in the pit of my stomach won't go away. I arrive at the station partly depressed, partly pissed off and completely miserable. Heading straight for the coffee machine in the lounge, I walk past the table where Emmett's reading the sports page without acknowledging him.

"Good morning, sunshine," he bellows, causing the pounding in my head to intensify. I grunt in reply, annoyed when he chuckles. "Swan, it's Friday. Why the hell are you so grouchy?"

"I'm not," I retort, filling a cardboard cup, and then setting the carafe down roughly. "This is my regular personality. I just haven't had much caffeine yet."

"I'll text Seth and ask him to stop at Starbucks on his way," Emmett remarks with a laugh. "What is it you've been drinking lately? Vanilla latte?"

"No," I snap as my heart clenches painfully again. Realizing how brusque my answer was, I soften my tone and turn to look at him as I continue. "I'll just have a regular coffee today."

He replies, but doesn't glance my way as he types the text. When I sit down at the table, he pushes the newspaper toward me, probably understanding that I'm not in the mood to talk yet. I attempt to skim an article on college football, but the letters all run together in a string of nonsensical phonetics. In my head, I keep hearing Edward's harsh words, challenging me to trust him… trust myself.

Newton comes into the lounge, and I pretend to pay attention while he runs through the show schedule for this morning. I smile at Seth when he hands me the plain coffee I ordered. I overreact to Emmett's needling as we sit down in the studio, trying to act normal. But every second, my mind – and my heart – remain consumed by Cullen. The anger in his voice. The look on his face. The pain in my chest.

Listening to the show's lead-in music, I take a deep breath, vowing to ignore my personal feelings for the next three hours. It's not easy, especially since much of the discussion centers around the upcoming Seahawks and Bears game. My heart thuds rapidly every time we play a cut from the comments Cullen made after practice yesterday, but I hold it together on the air. Breaks, however, are a different story. I spend them giving in to my many nervous habits… and bickering almost nonstop with Newton. By seven-thirty, I've swallowed an entire pack of gum and chewed my left thumbnail down so far that it's bleeding.

During the long, bottom of the hour break, Emmett pulls the IFB from his ear and heads to the lounge. As I reorganize the papers on the desk in front of me, Newton speaks sharply in my ear.

"Bella, when you do the advertising read, try not to breathe," he barks. "It's distracting."

"You don't want me to _breathe_?" I ask incredulously, not bothering to turn around and look at him through the control room window. "I think it will be more distracting for our listeners when I pass out due to oxygen deprivation."

"Don't be obtuse," he orders. "You know I mean don't breathe loudly. You're gasping into the mic every time you read the script."

"That's because the jackwagon who wrote the script didn't test the length," I reply through gritted teeth. "It's a forty-two second read that I only have thirty seconds to say."

"I wrote and tested it myself," he insists, repeating information I already know, as usual. "You should be able to do it with a little extra effort."

"And a little less breathing," I retort.

"Precisely," he agrees smugly. Biting my tongue, I go back to making sure all my papers are in order for the next segment. "Your commentary has been flat this morning, too. Try to be more enthusiastic for the rest of the show."

Bristling even though he's right about that, I move my mouth so close to the mic that my lips brush the wind screen. "_Yes, sir_," I snarl.

Emmett returns just in time to hear my comment. As he hands me a bottled water, he raises his eyebrows questioningly, but I'm not willing to give Newton the satisfaction of watching me tattle on him. Shaking my head, I laugh it off, betting that will piss Newton off even more.

At four minutes until nine, Seth finally says the words I've been waiting for. "We're clear. Good show, guys."

Newton chimes in next. "I have an appointment, so we won't do a post-show meeting today. See you Monday at five-thirty. Bella, be on time."

Swiveling my chair around, I glare at him through the window as I yank my IFB out roughly. In the seven weeks I've been co-hosting this show, I have been late exactly _once_ – arriving at five thirty-three on the morning after my first date with Cullen.

Cullen.

Now that we're off the air, the emotions I've kept at bay for the last three hours rush back all at once, draining the fight right out of me. I don't react to Newton's arrogant grin before lowering my gaze and turning around again. I stand to unhook my battery pack, mumbling a thank you when Seth appears at my side to collect my equipment.

Eager to shut myself in my office, I pick up my laptop bag and hurry into the hallway, avoiding Emmett's curious stare. I hear him calling after me, but I don't stop.

"Bella Swan!" he says more forcefully. "Quit running away!"

The unintended double meaning of that phrase makes me falter, wrapping one arm across my churning stomach as I stop in the middle of the hallway. But coming unglued in front of Emmett is unacceptable to me, so I feign annoyance as I turn around and roll my eyes. "What?" I huff.

"What's wrong with you today?" he asks. He stops right in front of me, lowering his voice. "You're acting weird."

Exhaling, I close my eyes for an instant to pull myself together before looking up at him again. "I'm sorry. I know I didn't carry my weight on the show today."

"You were fine on-air, but your eyes are all droopy and sad," he says, frowning at me. "What's going on?"

"I just didn't get much sleep last night," I hedge, forcing myself to smile. "I'm okay."

His eyes burn into mine, and I'm afraid that he sees the feelings I'm working so hard to conceal. Finally, though, he relents, flashing his irresistible dimples at me. "All right," he grins. He slings his arm around my shoulders as we resume walking up the hall toward our office space. "Want to grab lunch later?"

I agree, grateful that he let the subject drop without further interrogation, and then duck into my tiny office. For the next two hours, I stare at the NFL stats displayed on my computer screen without really absorbing anything. I wonder what Cullen's doing… I wonder what _I'm_ doing. This isn't the first time I've made a mess of my personal life; it's just the first time that I've immediately regretted it. But I'm not sure that I can fix it. Besides having to deal with my own issues, I know I hurt him… and that's what I regret most of all.

By the time Emmett knocks on my office door to see if I'm ready to go, I welcome the distraction. Twenty minutes later, we settle on opposite sides of a booth at his favorite downtown sports bar. Despite my lingering nausea, I eat half a burger while he entertains me with stories about his personal life. As I finish my second beer, my guard is down – and I don't realize a sneak attack is coming until it's too late.

"Who is he, Bella?" Emmett leans forward, speaking quietly.

"Who is who?" I play dumb, but my pulse begins to race, making me feel lightheaded.

"The guy." His eyes dart back and forth between mine as I desperately try to concoct a believable cover story. "In the past five years, I've seen you upset about work, about sports, even about your family. But you've never acted like this. So it has to be a guy."

Recognizing that he's not going to drop the subject this time, I decide that being sort of honest is the quickest way to defuse his curiosity.

"Yeah, it's a guy," I admit reluctantly, clamming up when the waitress comes to clear away our plates. Emmett lifts his empty glass, and then points to mine, too, ordering us another round.

"Who is he?" he asks again when she walks away.

"I really don't want to talk about it," I sigh, lowering my eyes. I swallow the rising lump in my throat. "It just didn't work out."

"That means it's someone I know," he presumes. Looking up, I force a chuckle and shake my head as he sits back in the booth, tilting his head up toward the ceiling and mumbling under his breath. "Riley? Nah. He'd never be able to keep it quiet. Seth's too young. Sam?"

He glances at me for confirmation or denial. "It's not Sam," I frown. "It's not–."

"Didn't think so. He's practically married to that chick he lives with," he interrupts. Amused, I watch him pull out his phone, his lips moving as he reads through his contact list. When the waitress sets two full glasses of beer on the table, I pick mine up and take a sip. Suddenly, Emmett's head snaps up. His eyes are wide. His mouth hangs open for a second before his face scrunches up in disgust. "Jesus, Bella. It's not fucking Newton, is it?"

"Newton? _Newton_? You think I would… with that jack... what the?" I sputter in horror, setting my glass down loudly on the wooden table. In my peripheral vision, I see that people sitting at the tables near us turn to look at me, but I don't care – and I don't lower my voice much as I continue. "No! No, no, no! How could you even suggest that?"

"I don't know," he defends testily. "You two are always fighting and sometimes that kind of passion bleeds over into another kind of passion."

"Give me a little credit, Emmett. Gross ." I shudder involuntarily at the thought of having a naked Newton in my bed. Across the table, Emmett chugs half his beer.

"I know," he agrees, pulling the glass away and wiping his mouth. "I almost puked my whole lunch when I thought it might be him."

"That's more information than I needed," I gripe, wrinkling my nose.

Taking another drink of my beer, I listen as Emmett switches topics, talking about what an ass Newton was this morning, but my gaze drifts upward to the television hanging from the ceiling in the corner. It's tuned to one of the local midday newscasts, and I watch dejectedly as they show footage of the Seahawks boarding the charter plane to Chicago. The camera zooms in on Cullen and Whitlock, who are walking side-by-side across the tarmac. Despite the dreary day outside, they're both wearing sunglasses. I search the screen, looking for the "Live" designation, but when I realize that it's past twelve-thirty, I assume this video was shot earlier. Cullen said they were leaving about noon.

"Don't you think?"

"Huh?" I ask, moving my eyes back to Emmett.

"Doesn't it suck that Newton is a pretty decent producer? Other than being a total douche in the personality department, I mean. I don't think Kate and Charlotte would fire him just for being a dick."

"Oh, yeah. Totally sucks." Lifting my beer again, I drink it down, wishing it would cure the deep ache in my chest. I never even called or texted Cullen before he left to tell him good luck. He told me he was nervous to play in front of his hometown crowd, but anxious to see his granddad and Rosalie. I wonder if he'll see Tanya this weekend, too.

Now _I_ feel like puking my whole lunch.

"Bella," Emmett says softly, reaching across the table to grasp my arm, "if he was stupid enough to walk away, then he's not worth it. You deserve better."

Dangerously close to tears, I have to close my eyes against the onslaught of emotion. _I'm_ the stupid one who walked away. _I'm_ the one who's not worth it. And Cullen most definitely deserves better.

"I just need a couple of days to regroup. Then I'll be fine," I mumble, trying to convince both of us.

"You know what I think?" he asks, not answering until I open my eyes and shake my head. "I think we should get so smashed that you don't even remember his name."

Since I don't have a better idea, since being numb sounds better than being heartbroken, I agree.

* * *

"Bella. Bella." I crack one eye open enough to see Emmett standing in my bedroom doorway, wrapping a towel around his waist. "Wake up, sunshine."

"Oh, my God. Oh, God, God, God," I moan, rolling over in my bed. "Mother trucker."

Emmett chuckles quietly. "I had a feeling that last shot of tequila was gonna do this to you."

"There was tequila?" I mumble into my pillow. "I don't remember any tequila."

"We had tequila. And Monster bombs. And something called a purple hooter."

"Please shut up," I whine, causing him to chuckle again.

"I even taught you some of my best pickup lines. Have you forgotten those, too?" he asks, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. I don't reply, but the answer is yes. I don't remember a lot of yesterday afternoon or evening. I have a hazy memory of riding here in a cab with Emmett and telling him to sleep on my couch instead of paying cab fare to his apartment several miles north of downtown. "I'm not drunk; I'm just intoxicated by you. Are you from Tennessee? Because you're the only _ten I see_. Are your legs tired from running through my dreams all night?"

"Ugh. Those are awful," I groan, laying my head sideways on the pillow so I can look at him.

"Then there's my favorite. My love for you is like diarrhea. I just can't hold it in," he laughs.

Despite my misery, I chuckle, too, until my head reminds me it's about to explode. "Holy crap. How come you don't feel like this?"

"I outweigh you by seventy-five pounds, babe," he explains. "And I wasn't drowning my sorrows quite as hard as you were, pining away for your mystery lover." Before I can stop it, a mournful groan escapes my lips as the heartache grips my chest again. "Sorry, Swan. Guess I shouldn't have mentioned him."

"'S okay," I mutter, shutting my eyes against the pain. "Are you leaving?"

"Yep. Hot lunch date in an hour. Want to share a cab back to our cars?"

I say yes and drag my ass out of bed, walking to the closet to get clean clothes.

"When did you go to Chicago?" he questions. Whirling around to look at him, I see that he's taken Cullen's Cubs hat from the doorknob and is studying it.

"During high school. With my dad," I answer. That's the truth; I just didn't get the hat then. That's not what he asked, though. As I scoot past him on the way to the bathroom, I can't help noticing that his towel has slipped dangerously low. "I'll be ready in five minutes. _Please_ cover that up before I get back."

I hear him laughing behind me as I shut the door and lean back against it. Clutching my clean clothes, I press my hands against my unsettled stomach.

"Cullen," I whisper, closing my eyes. "Cullen."

* * *

When I return from picking up my truck, I guzzle two glasses of water, and then flop down on the couch to wallow in my hangover and heartbreak. Turning the television on to ESPN, I listen to college football while I stare at the ceiling, moaning quietly. Eventually, I fall asleep and spend the next few hours dozing off and on, but it's no great escape today. Each time I drift off, my dreams are more vivid… more absurd… more full of Cullen.

_At Cullen's favorite jazz club, we listen to a singer who looks like his mom. My dad and Sue are there, too. The Chief is angry with us for not telling him that we ate all the apple pie. I start to say that we didn't, but then notice that Edward smells like cinnamon and apples… and I have crumbs around my mouth. _

Rolling to face the back of the couch, I fleetingly muse that I must be hungry. I haven't eaten yet today. Apple pie does kind of sound good. Warm apple pie. With vanilla ice cream on top. Sighing, I let my eyes slide closed again.

_I line up next to Edward on the field and take off running when the ball is snapped. I weave my way through the defense untouched, and then turn to look for the ball, expecting to see it sailing through the air. It's not. Stopping, I turn to look at Cullen, but the field behind me is empty. _

Waking with a start, my heart pounds hard and fast in my chest. It doesn't take a genius to read between the subliminal lines of that dream. My pulse doesn't return to normal for several minutes, and every time I shut my eyes, I see the empty field, feel my stomach drop when I realize Cullen's gone.

Afraid of what I'll dream next, I keep my eyes open as long as I can, watching the end of the USC game. But before long, the announcer's monotone voice soothes me back to sleep.

_Sitting on Cullen's rooftop terrace, we face each other on the couch like we did on my birthday. The conversation feels like an interview. I think I'm asking the questions, but the voice doesn't sound like mine. Cullen's voice as he answers is smooth and perfect, as always._

_He talks about his granddad as piano music plays in the background. He reminisces about college life at Northwestern. He admits it was challenging to pack up and move from Phoenix to Seattle in two days when he was unexpectedly traded._

"… it's been an incredible seven weeks, though."

Suddenly, my eyes pop open. I sit up straight and stare at Cullen on the television screen, surprised to see that he's being interviewed on _SportsCenter_. He didn't mention it earlier in the week. Crap, he looks good. Black, open-neck shirt. Unshaven jaw. Beautiful green eyes and long eyelashes.

_That_ is what I walked – no, ran – away from. What kind of idiot does something like that?

_Me_, I answer, even though that was a rhetorical question. I'm the idiot… the idiot who's more scared of being hurt than alone. More willing to push someone I care about away than let him in. I should have worked on correcting that character flaw long before now.

Groaning, I lie down on my stomach and bury my face in the cushion. As I listen to him break down some of his most pivotal plays so far this season, I hear the excitement in his voice. I can't bear to watch, though; can't stand to see his face light up the way it does when he talks X's and O's. Not now. Not knowing that I may never get to see it in person again.

When the reporter asks a series of questions about his weekly study routine and the amount of free time he has, I have a feeling I know where he's headed. Cullen, the Communications major, likely does, too.

"Edward, earlier today, we asked viewers to submit questions for you on our website. A significant portion of the responders wondered the same thing," he chuckles. "Are you single?"

Pushing myself up on my elbows, I turn my head toward the TV, bracing myself for his reply. Edward's lips curl slightly into a crooked smirk, confirming that he realized he would be asked about his private life. Even under the heavy makeup he's wearing for the high-definition camera, I see his cheeks darken. Biting my lip, I breathe rapidly, waiting for his answer.

"Well… I'm not married."

Okay. That wasn't terrible. Honest yet vague. Cullen's been paying attention during media training. Breathing easier, I sit up, propping my feet on the coffee table.

The interviewer sounds amused when he replies. "Your sister is laughing off-camera. Maybe she has inside information."

"She probably thinks she does," Edward chuckles, pausing to look to his right.

The video cuts to a different camera, shooting Edward from his left side. From this angle, Rosalie is visible, standing a few feet away and smiling widely. But she's not the one who captures my attention; Tanya is standing beside her.

"What the hell?" I whisper, exhaling in a gust. Open-mouthed and frowning, I stare at her until the camera angle switches and I'm looking at Edward from the front again. Stunned, I don't listen carefully to the next question he's asked, but Cullen nods as he answers.

"Yeah, I've been looking forward to this week. I love Chicago. It's great to see my family, and I'm catching up with a lot of old friends, too."

_Obviously_.

The pain that bursts in my chest pushes a few sobs out to accompany the tears that fill my eyes and spill over. Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them and wipe my wet cheeks on the scratchy denim of my jeans.

I wish I hadn't left the television on. I wish I hadn't seen the interview. I wish I had realized before this instant that there's something I fear more than being hurt by Cullen: Losing him.

My catatonic stare remains locked on the screen as the interview wraps up. Smiling, Cullen says something to the reporter as they shake hands. I don't hear a word of it. The _SportsCenter_ host moves on to the next story. I don't pay attention to it.

Instead, I stay frozen in place on the couch while my own private nightmare plays over and over again in my head, ending the same way each time. I keep pushing Cullen away. He falls in love with someone else. He kisses _her_. Wraps his arms around _her_. Smiles his crooked smile at _her_.

"I don't want it to be her," I choke, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I want it to be me."

Eager to talk to him, I want to call him… but I don't know what to say. I don't even know if he wants to hear from me. He hasn't contacted me since I left the penthouse Thursday night. Sniffling, I pick up my phone from the coffee table and send a text message to test the waters.

***Saw the interview. You were great. –B**

Although I try not to get my hopes up, after several minutes pass with no incoming text, I worry that communicating with him before the game was a bad idea. Maybe he's not ready to talk. Maybe he thinks I'm screwing with his head. Maybe he's out with his family… or _friends_.

To torture myself, I watch Cullen's interview when it airs on _SportsCenter_ again the next hour. He's a natural in front of the camera, coming across as confident yet humble. That combination is as appealing to me now as it was on the day I met him. For the second time tonight, I wait breathlessly when he's asked about a relationship, and then endure the sight of Tanya standing nearby. This time, I pay attention to the end of the interview, listening as he says his sister and her friend are taking him to meet a large group of their old, college friends. I don't know exactly why that makes me feel better, but it does.

Once the interview is over, I turn off the TV and get my laptop, hoping to be productive. I spend some time looking up college football scores and stats from the day, making notes for Monday's show. I clean out my refrigerator. I order in Chinese food for dinner. I listen to the CD of jazz music Cullen made for me a couple of weeks ago.

And I check my phone for messages every two minutes.

As the hours pass, I'm increasingly restless. I can't focus on work any longer. Nothing on TV holds my attention. In my head, memories of Cullen mingle with visions of what will happen when he gets home. My devoted heart has already decided what it wants, rapidly objecting to any scenario where I can't repair the damage I've done. My rational brain, however, still doubts my ability to fully surrender to my feelings.

Sue has played the part of counselor many times for me, but I don't want to consult her on this one. I would feel sneaky asking her for advice about a relationship that my dad doesn't know exists. Picking up my phone, I call the only other woman I trust to be completely truthful: my mom.

She's surprised to receive a call from me on a Saturday night, especially since we talked four days ago. I can tell from her voice that she's immediately on alert, but she lets me ramble on about unimportant subjects for a while before she gently pries the truth from me.

Once I begin talking about Edward, the whole story comes pouring out in a mostly-chronological account. I don't tell her who he is – I don't want her to know that Dad knows him – but I tell her he's not like anyone I've dated before. I relay my initial refusals, the dates and dinners and talking that followed once I gave in. Then, finally, his declaration of love and my ensuing freak out.

When I finish, I hear her sigh into the phone, but she remains otherwise quiet for longer than I expect.

"Mom," I whine when she doesn't offer advice. "What should I do?"

"That depends. How do you feel about him?"

"I… um, I," I stammer, pausing to clear my throat. Since Thursday, I've thought it again and again, but I haven't said it out loud. "I… love him."

"Honey, that's wonderful."

"No, Mom. You don't understand," I continue, unable to stop the verbal stream of emotions now that I've cracked. "I'm completely undone by him. He's so perfect. There's literally not _one_ thing wrong with him. He's chivalrous and old-fashioned in some ways, but also supportive of my career. He's sure of himself and his feelings. He's sweet… smart… gorgeous. His bottom teeth are even straight! How am I supposed to resist him?"

"You're not supposed to," she answers with a quiet chuckle. "You're supposed to do the same thing everyone else does when they fall in love: Give him your heart and damn the consequences."

"It's too scary. Too fast. It's been such a whirlwind."

"It always is when you fall in love."

"But what if it doesn't work out?"

"What if it does?" she snaps back. "What if you two spend the rest of your lives making each other happy?"

"I'm scared of that, too!" I confess. When my mom laughs, I can't help joining in. I know I sound ridiculous. As our laughter dies down, I whisper the questions I most want answered. "Do you regret falling for Dad? Regret following him from place to place for his playing and coaching career?"

"Not for a single moment," she answers firmly. "How could I? We got you."

"But it didn't last."

"True. All relationships hit rough patches, and your dad and I weren't very good at fighting our way through them." Her voice is quiet, and she pauses for several seconds, letting her words sink in. When she continues, her tone is firmer, her voice stronger. "You can't use us as your excuse forever, though. For years, I've watched you try to avoid being hurt by keeping people at arm's length or running away completely. But if you love this man enough to stay and fight when things get shitty, then I think it's time for you to run _toward_ something instead."

"I want to, Mom," I insist, sniffling as tears gather in my eyes for the four hundredth time in the last two days. I'm so annoyed by all the crying, but I can't seem to control it. "It could be too late, though. He might not love me anymore."

"You think he loved you two days ago but not now?" she quizzes. Although she tries to cover with a cough, I hear her chuckle. "Have a little faith in him, Bella. And in yourself."

"I'm working on it."

"Good. Now, tell me when I'm going to meet this young man."

We stay on the phone for another half hour while I tell her more about him. She continues to encourage me, urging me to take a chance. Phil gets on the line to talk sports and make me laugh. By the time we hang up, my head and heart are in complete agreement. I know what I want, and I know what I'm willing to do to get it.

Unfortunately, I still haven't heard from Cullen. Tired of worrying about it, I head for the shower, surrounding myself with hot water and steam until my fingers are wrinkly and my pale skin is bright red. As I'm stepping out onto the bath mat, I hear a faint noise from the other room – the sound I've been hoping to hear for the last five hours: Cullen's text chime.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God," I mutter, not bothering to dry off before I race into the living room, dripping water all over the hardwood floor in my wake. Grabbing my phone, I hold it in one hand while holding my towel together with the other.

***Hey. I wasn't sure you'd watch. –E **

Relieved, I collapse onto the couch and type a response with shaking hands.

***I did. Twice. How's Chicago? –B**

***Rainy and chilly. Like Seattle. –E**

***It was warm and sunny today. –B**

***Figures. Soon as I'm gone, it's nice there. –E**

***We were just waiting for you to leave town. Haha. –B **

When a couple of minutes go by without an answer, I assume he's done for tonight. Just as I'm setting my phone down, it chimes again in my hand.

***Sorry. I was kicking Whitlock out of my room. But I gotta get to bed. –E **

***Okay. Good luck tomorrow. –B**

***Thanks. Goodnight. –E**

***Night. –B **

Feeling strangely buoyed by our insignificant text conversation, I stare at my phone screen until it dims, and then turns black. By the time I fall asleep an hour later, I'm smiling. I not only have hope… I also have a plan.

* * *

Sunday afternoon, I watch the game alone in my apartment. It's still raining in Chicago, which contributes to the sloppy first half play of the Seahawks offense. Players are sliding and falling on the muddy field and several of them have trouble hanging on to the wet, slippery ball. Edward is obviously pissed off on the sidelines when the Seahawks trail by ten points in the third quarter. The camera zooms in several times on his beautiful, angry face as he studies the photos of the previous drive.

The Seahawks defense scores on a pick six and the point-after is good, but we're still down by three with less than five minutes to go. On the final drive of the game, Edward scrambles for two first downs, determined to keep the ball moving toward the end zone. With under a minute left, he connects with Whitlock for the go-ahead touchdown. The Bears aren't able to score on their final opportunity, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Edward smiling on the sidelines as time runs out.

As the afternoon drags on, I call Emmett and Newton and tell them I'm taking tomorrow off. Emmett quizzes me to make sure I'm not depressed, but he ends our conversation by telling me to enjoy my day, so I guess I passed his mental evaluation. Newton isn't so nice, accusing me of leaving him in the lurch by only giving him fourteen hours to find a fill-in host. Whatever. I tell him to kiss my ass, and then hang up. Well, I tell him I'll be there Tuesday and hang up, but the kiss my ass was definitely implied.

Next, I call Sue to check in. While we're talking, I fish around enough to get a pretty good idea what time the Seahawks charter is due to land. As the clock approaches that time, I drive to Edward's building and let myself into the underground parking garage. I pull into a spot across the aisle from his, so when he parks in his assigned space, he'll be facing the back of my truck. I get out and walk around the bed, lowering the tailgate and boosting myself up to sit on it, staring at his empty space.

Then I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Ninety minutes later, I'm lying flat in the bed of my truck, playing a game on my rapidly dying phone. I don't have any service down here, so I can't text or call anyone to make sure the plane got back on time. Sighing, I set my phone down beside me and stare at the fluorescent light above my head until I see spots. I close my eyes, watching brilliant colors erupt behind my eyelids and wondering where Cullen is.

Since the Seahawks have a bye next weekend, the players will have the next five days off. Cullen could have gone out for drinks with some teammates. Whitlock is his best friend on the team, and he's no stranger to the Seattle club circuit. Or Cullen could have decided to stay in Chicago for a couple of days.

Discouraged by that idea, I contemplate giving up for the night and heading home. When I hear the squeak of turning tires on the smooth concrete floor mere seconds later, I quickly sit up and look around. The nervous anticipation that slowly diminished while I was waiting returns at once when I see his gray SUV approaching. Taking a deep breath, I hop down from my tailgate and move a few steps forward, lifting one hand to shield my eyes from his headlights as he parks in front of me. Immediately, he kills the lights and turns off the engine.

Stuffing my hands in my front pockets, I bite my lower lip, but quickly let it go, trying to look braver than I feel. He never takes his eyes off me as he gets out and shuts the door.

"Hey," I say, smiling slightly at him.

"Hey."

He walks forward to the front fender of his car, and then stops to lean against it, leaving about ten feet of empty space between us. Unable to read the expression on his face, I swallow uncomfortably as he crosses his arms over his chest. Terrified, but this time afraid that he'll be the one running away, I struggle to breathe normally. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that it almost drowns out my voice when I speak again.

"Can I talk to you?"

Watching him closely, I see the slight, amused frown that momentarily draws his brows together, and then his face relaxes as his lips curve into my favorite, crooked smile. When he replies, he mimics the answer I gave to the same question on the night we first had dinner together, right down to the teasing tone. And he delivers the line with perfect, comedic timing.

"I don't know, Swan. _Can_ you?"

My relieved laughter mixes with his quiet chuckle, echoing through the garage. He pushes off his car and takes one step forward, which I hope is an invitation because I'm already running toward him… and it's easier than I ever imagined.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review.**


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